


Waking Up to Life

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2019-11-28 16:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: What if Bridget hadn't gotten that D in French?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this line from the (UK edition) book:
>
>> "I'll never forget the moment when I looked at the notice board and saw a D next to French and knew I couldn't go to Manchester. It altered the course of my whole life."
>> 
>> "You should thank your lucky stars, Bridge," he said, lying on his back and blowing smoke at the ceiling. "You'd probably have married some crashing [Geoffrey Boycott](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geoffrey_Boycott) character and spent the rest of your  
> life cleaning out the whippet cage."
> 
> ..  
> US Version is quite different (bolding mine): _"You'd probably have married some crashing **northern Engineering student** and spent the rest of your life cleaning out the whippet cage."_

Bleak; everything within sight seemed bleak, cold, unfeeling. The darkening sky and ground were both equally grey, to the point where it became impossible to see the horizon save for the occasional distant tree. She raised her hand, pressed her palm to the windowpane; unsurprisingly, it was ice cold to the touch. With a sigh, she drew her hand back, turned away from the window at the sound of her name, and looked instead into the comparatively dazzlingly bright kitchen (with its equally dazzlingly bustling catering crew), wishing she could muster a spark of enthusiasm about anything. Particularly about the dinner party they were set to host that evening. "Yes; what is it?"

"Shall I bring the wine up from the cellar?" asked one of the caterers.

She forced a smile. "Yes, that'd be great." She glanced to the clock on the wall. "Use your best judgment on everything else," she said quietly. "I'll be upstairs, getting dressed."

"Yes, ma'am."

She held the smile, but inwardly, she cringed a little; once she was well out of the kitchen, the smile fell, and she sighed again. _Ma'am._ Something old women, matrons, get called. Apparently, at age thirty-two, she was already in that class of women. 

She scaled the stairs up to the third floor, which housed the master bedroom and nothing else; she considered the fact that her first flat, straight out of uni in Manchester, hadn't been as big as her bedroom was now. Objectively speaking, it was a beautiful room: pristine white carpeting; jewel-dark burgundy drapery; a four-poster bed with carved posts; a settee situated near the fireplace with a carefully selected library of books as well as a camouflaged television for when she wanted to watch something in the comfort of a cosier room.

She shed her clothes and slipped into a dressing gown. She'd already decided to do her makeup and hair first. What she wanted to wear was already set aside, hung in the spacious closet: a sedate, classic Chanel wool dress with a black top and a long white skirt; the irregular waistline appealed to the creative side of her, a side that did not get expressed often enough. Her Louboutin Au Hameau shoes, with their 100-millimetre-high heels, rhinestone-studded curlicue-cut-out uppers and rebellious red soles, also appealed for the same reasons. On her vanity sat the necklace she'd chosen—a strand of pearls with an Elsa Peretti heart—as well as pearl drop earrings and a silver bracelet. 

She took a seat at her vanity; with the lights on she felt for a moment that she was backstage in a theatre dressing room. The very thought of it made her chuckle a little, but that chuckle was mostly without mirth. She had no talent to be an actress. She probably couldn't even be a journalist anymore, though she'd gotten her first in uni for it. She hadn't held a job in eight years; she hadn't needed to. She was, in a single, despicable word, well-kept.

Her greatest creative outlet was her diary. There, she could say all of the things she dared not say to anyone else, not that she had a lot of friends around her up here in the north. Her best friends from uni had carried on in London, and were successful, independent women. She talked with them occasionally, but conversations were always stilted and awkward. They'd always love each other like sisters, but they all knew she had nothing in common with them anymore.

In preparation for drawing her pale-streaked, dark blonde hair up into a twist, she pulled the shoulder-length tresses back from her face, held it with her hand, then briefly formed a high ponytail at a rakish angle as was the trend when she was younger. Fondly she thought of the carefree years of her late teens and early twenties, with vats of hairspray, red lipstick, micro-minis, daring crop tops, and dancing and drinking all night at the clubs. She'd found her first grey hair only last week, which depressed her to no end. Into her diary she jotted down a few of these thoughts, then finished the entry with a rhetorical, "When did I get so old?"

"Are you up there?"

She closed the diary at the sound of her husband's voice, realised as she did that she'd spent far too long in deep contemplation. The sky outside the windows was now full dark.

"Yes, I am." 

She rose and tied the belt of the dressing gown to close it just as he appeared at the bedroom door. She smiled. He was several years her senior; when they'd met it was not at all noticeable, but now, after a decade, it was starting to show. His hair was thinning a bit at the top, and what was left behind was thickly sprinkled with grey. He'd taken lately to wearing a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee, and while she liked the way it looked on him, it served to remind her how infrequently they kissed anymore.

"Oh, I thought you'd be ready."

"I got distracted."

He chuckled. "That diary of yours, I'd wager," he said. "Well, carry on. I'm just going to have a quick shower and then slip into my tuxedo." His eyes went to the open closet. "That'll look fantastic on you," he said. He then seemed to notice her hair loose around her face. "Putting your hair up?"

She nodded.

"Good," he said. "Looks so classic when you do that."

Without another word he strode over and stepped into the en suite bathroom. The door closed, and the water came on. She sat again and proceeded to put her hair up. This took no time at all; she was well-practised at it.

When it came to makeup she decided on black liner for the upper lashes, and smoky grey shadow. She dusted her cheeks with pink, and paired it with a matching pale pink lipstick. The overall effect, especially after slipping into the dress and shoes, looked so dramatic it made her feel glamorous.

_God knows_ , she thought, _I could use some bloody glamour_.

She fixed her earrings into place (clip-on; she'd never been brave enough to have them pierced) and necklace, but waited for his reappearance out of the bathroom (donned in terrycloth robe) for help with the bracelet. He grinned when he saw her. "You look lovely."

"Thanks," she said. She held out the bracelet. "I could use a hand. Well, two, really."

At this he laughed lightly. "Happy to oblige." After a scant few seconds, he said, "There you are. It won't take me but a few minutes to get dressed if you don't want to wait."

She thought she might like a glass of wine before the guests arrived, and said, "I'll see you downstairs then."

There was a time when she wouldn't have dreamt of descending the stairs wearing shoes like the ones she now wore, but it had become such a habit that she thought nothing of it now. When she reached the ground floor, she glanced to the clock. A hair before seven. _People should be arriving at any time_ , she thought.

She strode to the dining room, where she asked for a glass of wine and was immediately obliged. It was the first time they'd used this particular caterer, but she guessed they'd learned quickly that one does not say no to a titled woman.

She took the wine to the sitting room, where her husband would know to find her. After a few long sips, she wondered if she still had time for a cigarette, but at that moment the bell rang in concert with the clocks chiming the hour. _My, my_ , she thought. _Someone likes to be punctual._

She took a deep breath, put on her most scintillating hostess face, and turned to await her husband and the early-bird guest.

………

He realised it must be the right place, as there were no other houses nearby, and pulled up to park along the side of the drive, switching off the ignition. He had grossly overestimated the amount of time he'd need to reach the country home. Now it was twenty minutes to the hour, until the start of the dinner party, so he decided to stay in the car until the official start.

He had been invited to dinner parties at this home before; he was a professional acquaintance more than a close friend, but it was a genial relationship all the same. However, he had not had the time previously in his calendar make the drive up from London in order to attend. With a business meeting the next day in Manchester, he found the timing to have worked out at last, and he had been offered a room in the spacious home for the night before carrying on to Manchester the following day.

As much as he hated being the first to arrive, he was starting to get a bit cold sitting there in his car with the engine off, plus he didn't want to enter with his travel bag with a crowd present. With a quick glance to his watch and a sigh, he exited the car, got his overnight bag and walked up to the front door. With impeccable timing the bell went off just as the clock struck seven.

The door swung open to reveal the smiling face of his host. "Well, why am I not surprised _you're_ the first one here? Come in, come in, we'll get you a drink—oh, do you have a bag?"

He held it forward.

"I'll bring that upstairs for you."

"Really, that's not—"

"No, no, I insist," he said. "So how was the drive? Not too bad, I trust?"

"Remarkably clear for January until I got about as far north as Leeds."

"Typical, typical. Well, head on into the sitting room there." He pointed in the appropriate direction. "Make yourself a drink. I'll be right back down and we can chat some more."

Bag in hand, his host went up the stairs; he in turn went towards the sitting room.

He was not expecting to see what he saw in there.

Standing there with a wineglass cradled in one hand was a woman. Her blonde hair was swept up from her face, and her dark-rimmed blue eyes looked up at him in what seemed very much to be surprise. She was adorned in pearls and a classically elegant evening dress made of light wool, possibly velvet. Overall he thought she looked absolutely stunning, and was grateful that she spoke first so that he did not have to.

"Oh," she said. "I thought you were my husband."

He quickly gathered his wits and cleared his throat. "Sorry to disappoint," he said with a smile, then strode forward and offered his hand. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Mark Darcy."

A look of recognition crossed her features; it was not an uncommon occurrence since he'd made the eligible bachelor's list in _Tatler_ a year or so back. "Mark Darcy. Darcy," she repeated. "Tell me, by some chance are you related to a Malcolm and Elaine Darcy down in Northamptonshire?"

This question in particular was not something he expected, and it must have shown on his face; he worked quickly to cover it up. "They're my parents, as a matter of fact," he said. "How on earth do you know them?"

Her pearly pink lips curved up into a slight smile, one which looked very attractive on her. "Before I became a countess," she said in a confidential tone, a bit of self-mockery as she gave her title, "I was Bridget Jones, daughter to Pam and Colin of Grafton Underwood."

He was astonished. He had heard tales of the rambunctious little girl of his parents' friends. "We played as children."

She nodded. "I have recollections of summertime paddling pools," she said. "Very faint, mind, as I was only four but—"

The conversation was derailed when the evening's host came in and interrupted with, "No drink yet, Mark? What's your poison?"

He'd forgotten all about the drink. "Um, single malt if you don't mind, Arthur," he said. 

"Two fingers it is," he said, pouring into a tumbler. "I see you've met my Bridget."

"Yes. As a matter—" he began as Arthur poured, but stopped abruptly when he saw her shaking her head out of view of her husband's sight. He knew a signal when he saw one, and for whatever reason she didn't want to share that they had once known each other. "Er, as a matter of fact she was just about to get me that drink."

"Brilliant," he said, handing Mark the drink, and walking over to where she stood to slip his arm around her shoulders. "She's always right on top of these things, aren't you, love?"

"Of course," she said, smiling again, but this time it seemed so… _Well_ , he thought. _Insincere_.

"Arthur," said Mark, "I don't believe you've ever told me how you and Bridget met."

"In Manchester," he said. "I had just been signed by Man U. She was attending uni. We met in a bar and hit it off. Dated for a couple years, got married, and here we are."

She offered another pleasant smile, but to Mark it again seemed insincere. He was having real difficulty reconciling the tales he'd heard with the woman before him, the woman he'd heard Arthur speaking of fleetingly in their conversations.

"And you?" Bridget asked suddenly. "What is it that you do, Mark?" 

"I'm a barrister," he said. "My speciality is human rights."

"Oh really?" she asked. "That sounds very interesting."

"Mark and I serve on an advisory board together for a charity in London," explained Arthur. "It's one for refugees who face persecution, even death, back in their respective homelands."

"How terrible," she said. "I mean, of course, it's terrible that they face such horrors, not terrible that you do the charity work together." She blushed a little and smiled another genuine smile, one that lit up her face, and in that instant, Mark wished Arthur would go away so that he could talk to her some more on her own. He was filled with questions; most notably, why she did not want Arthur to know of their past acquaintance.

The door chime rang again. "I can get that," Bridget said.

"No, enjoy your wine, love," he said. "I'll go."

When Arthur went out of the room, Mark did not even have to ask the question to which he most wanted to have the answer. She stepped closer and spoke quietly. "He tends to get a bit jealous," she said. "Of the men in my past, I mean."

"I knew you when I was _eight_ ," he said.

She pursed those pale pink lips. "Please, just…"

"Don't worry," he said. "Won't breathe a word." He paused to sip his scotch. "So, have you lived in the country long?"

………

_Too fucking long_ , she thought, but to Mark she nodded. "Since we got married," she said.

"And do you like it up here?"

"It's absolutely beautiful in the summer," she said. "It gets a bit dreary in the winter, though, and dark so early."

He smiled. "You didn't really answer the question," he said, "but I'll let it slide."

She glanced down. "My heart's not really here," she said softly; for some reason, she felt totally open to him, felt like she could let the rein off of her thoughts, a rein she struggled greatly to hold day in and day out.

"Where is your heart really, then?"

Bridget glanced up again and looked directly into his eyes. She did not expect the depth of concern she saw there. "I…" she began, then trailed off. "It's not a matter of liking it or not liking it. This is where I live. Where _we_ live. I can't really do much about it."

"If you could live anywhere," he asked with total sincerity, "where would you go?"

She heard voices in the foyer, Arthur chatting with Sir Peter; she glanced to the door, then to Mark again with a small grin. "London," she said, but did not get to further elaborate as she, as hostess, was obliged to pardon herself to greet them.

"We can talk more later," he said. "If you like."

She nodded.

She went through the motions of greetings as guest after guest arrived, but could only turn over in her mind again and again what it was about this man that she felt she could speak so freely to him. The childhood connection certainly factored into it, but there was something more.

As the minutes ticked on, as she engaged in conversation with each arriving guest, she realised what that something more was: he talked to her as a person in her own right, and not as Lord Arthur Thornton's wife, not as Countess of Oakenshaw. He talked to her as if she were still only Bridget Jones, only daughter of Colin and Pam, from a tiny village just north of London.

She had occasion to see and listen to him in conversation, too; he could definitely hold his own against the rank and file of those present, and in fact seemed to emerge from said conversations with the upper hand. He intrigued her, and if the open glances he gave back in return, she ventured to think maybe she intrigued him just a little, too.

She knew it was foolish escapism, but the very thought was invigorating. He was, after all, a very handsome man; he was taller than Arthur, as lean as Arthur had been before he was retired from sport, with thick brown waves closely cropped and a clean-shaven face. She thought too of his eyes. They were brown just as Arthur's were, but there was a certain vitality, a certain warmth to them that Arthur's hadn't had in years. 

"Love, are you all right?"

It was Arthur. She smiled, placed her hand in his and squeezed affectionately. "I'm fine," she said. "I think Lady Sarah's perfume's making me a bit lightheaded."

He chuckled. "You want to get a little air before we eat?"

"I think I will," she said.

Conspiratorially, he said, "And you can have that cigarette you've been dying for all night."

At this she laughed. "That too." She leaned and pecked him on the lips. "Back in a flash. Don't wait for me to start."

"As if we could possibly start without you," he said.

Grateful for the excuse to escape the din for a bit, she grasped her cigarette case and lighter, donned a coat, went through the French windows, out onto the back patio and into the icy January night.

………

Mark observed her departing through the French windows and furrowed his brow, until he saw the flare of what was unmistakeably a cigarette ember. He chuckled. He contemplated the idea of joining her now that she was alone in order to ask her more about her dreams of London, but he didn't want to monopolise her time, and did not want his curiosity about her to be quite so obvious, particularly not in front of her husband.

Despite his better judgment, he had to admit that he was more than just curious; he was interested. Something about her piqued that interest; something of a fish out of water about her, of that wild little four-year-old yearning to run free again. He wanted to know more of the history between her and Arthur. They were still affectionate, evidenced by the hand-holding and kiss he had just witnessed, but were they still in love? 

Before he knew it she came back in, disappearing then reappearing without her coat. She drew her brows together, then smiled a little. "We're sitting down to eat," she said. "Are you planning on joining us?"

To his surprise the room had emptied out around him without his notice, and he laughed too. "Sorry, got a little lost in thought," he said.

"I know the feeling," she said, a wistfulness in her tone.

They entered the dining room together and to his surprise he had been placed beside her; he knew, obviously, that husbands and wives did not get placed together at dinner parties, but this seemed wonderfully coincidental.

"Hope you don't mind I had you set next to Mark, love," said Arthur as he came around to peck his wife on the cheek, gallantly pushing her chair in for her. "When I did a little digging, I learnt that you and he grew up in the same area in Northamptonshire, so I thought you'd have lots of things to talk about."

She appeared to have been taken aback nearly as much as he had. "As a matter of fact, we played together as children," she said tentatively. "Our parents are friends."

Arthur's face lit up with unmitigated delight. "Is that so?" Arthur asked, clearly amused. "Well, what are the odds of that?" Mark was relieved that there was no apparent trace of jealousy.

"It's pretty odd," she said as they watched Arthur circle around the rather large table to the head. Mark said thanks for the wine, then picked up the glass.

"To renewing old friendships," he heard her say from beside him.

"Indeed," he said, miming a toast then taking a drink.

As they began to eat the first course of soup, he tried to gauge if ambient conversation was loud enough to afford them some level of privacy for their conversation. She spoke instead, quiet enough for him to hear, but for no one else to. "London seems so… modern and alive. Fresh and new. Everything here is… _not_. You know?"

He agreed that he did with a nod. "Steeped in tradition," he said, thinking of his own family's tradition with Eton, but being a landed peer, marrying into an earldom… that was a whole different plane. 

"And there's nothing wrong with that," she hastened to add. "But I…" She looked up to meet his eye, and her voice got even quieter. "I almost feel guilty saying, but… I have begun to wonder if it's really for me."

He matched the tenor of her voice. No one seemed to be paying attention to them at all. "You hadn't wondered before?"

"Before…?" she prompted.

"Before you got married."

"I hadn't," she admitted. "It didn't fully hit me until our wedding day. The pomp and circumstance, and the sheer number of people… oh my _God_. I was just a girl marrying the man I loved. He just happened to be an up-and-coming footballer and… oh yeah, an earl. Had no idea what all that entailed, to be honest."

He offered her a smile.

She went on. "I wasn't even twenty-five yet. Went to school in Manchester, had an editing job for a bit, but after I got married…"

He understood. She had left her job after marriage. Cut ties to her former working life. By inference, he understood she hadn't really been her own person since.

"Is it London that appeals to you," he asked in a careful tone, "or just being not-here?"

………

Bridget chuckled. She knew exactly what he was thinking: that she was merely looking for an escape. "London has _always_ appealed. I remember visiting with my dad when I was little. We went to the zoo. It was wonderful. Almost magical."

"Most children feel that way."

"Oh, I know," she said with a smile. "I've been since, with Arthur. It hasn't lost its charm for me." She laughed. "To London, I mean. Not the zoo."

He smiled too, but paused to take in a spoonful of soup. "Bear in mind the saying about the grass always being greener."

_…On the other side of the fence_ , she thought, completing the proverb in her head, as she partook of her spicy butternut soup. "Well, yes," she said. "I'm not about to do anything crazy."

The boldness of the conversation she was having in the presence of so many people, with a man with whom she hadn't had significant contact in nearly thirty years, really shocked her. Not only that, but she had never verbalised her wanderlust before, not even to herself. But she couldn't do anything rash. She was secure in her life, at least, and it wasn't as if she didn't love Arthur. She did. 

As she finished her soup, though, Bridget realised that she couldn't honestly say she was _in_ love with Arthur anymore. They'd had happy years, though trying for a child early into the marriage, and learning of Arthur's sterility, had dealt them a real blow. After that, the more time that had passed, the longer inertia had sustained them. There was no way she could have dealt him the double blow of leaving him when he would never be able to father a child to whom he could pass his title.

"That was spectacular soup," came the voice from beside her. She glanced to her side, and looked at Mark.

"It was," she said with a grin. "Wasn't it?"

Dinner brought more conversation between them, this time about Mark's work, which she found both mesmerising and horrifying, even watered down for over-dinner discussion. _To think such atrocities could still be perpetrated in this day and age_ , she thought. He must have been a very strong person to love such gruelling work so much.

She pardoned herself after the main course to go outside to have another cigarette. She heard footsteps behind her, then felt a hand at her waist.

"I seem to have made a wise choice, setting you next to Mark Darcy," she heard Arthur say close to her ear. "You look like you had a really great time there in that group for conversation."

She leaned her head back, exhaled the smoke. "I did have a great time. He's really interesting."

"Night's not over yet. Lady Sarah's got some charity fashion show thing she wants to talk to you about—" She rolled her eyes, thinking of Lady Sarah's wretched perfume, until he added, "—in London."

"Oh really?" she asked, turning around.

"I know you love London," he said. "And you are a bit holed up, up here, which I know you're not always happy about."

She sheepishly smiled—and wondered how transparent she had been.

"I knew you'd like this idea," he said. He let out a breath; she watched it escape his lips as her smoke had done moments before.

"I do love you," she said, then leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

"I love you too," he said. "Now come on and get all the details from Lady Sarah, and try to contain your disgust at her cologne."

She laughed, then slipped her hand through his elbow. She felt lighter than she had in ages, despite the cloud of scent by which she was about to be engulfed.

………

Post-dinner, Mark indulged in a bit more to drink, as he knew he did not need to drive that evening. He spoke with many people that evening, but would have been hard pressed to recollect a single conversation, as his attention was still focused very much on his former childhood playmate. She'd come out from the patio with Arthur looking positively radiant; he wondered what they'd talked about to have elicited such a response, particularly given the conversation that Mark had had with her over dinner.

"Mark." It was Arthur; Mark turned to speak to his host. "May I say again how very pleased indeed I am that you were finally able to join us. I'm not sure what it was you spoke about, but it hardly matters. I haven't seen Bridget that lively in… well, a very long time."

"I am very pleased to have made it up here at last," he said, "and happy to renew my acquaintance with your wife, the countess."

"Oh, Mark, none of that formality is necessary," Arthur chuckled. "As you call me 'Arthur', so you should you call her 'Bridget'."

"All right," he said. "I am happy to renew my acquaintance with Bridget."

As dessert was brought out, he noted Bridget in conversation with an older woman, long dark brown hair and quite loquacious, speaking in accented English in a very strident voice. He remembered that everyone had called her Lady Sarah, but especially recalled that her perfume preceded her into a room. Bridget seemed very happy indeed, as did Lady Sarah. He wondered about what they were speaking. As he did so, she met his eye and smiled before returning her attention to Lady Sarah; he thought, _I definitely need to ask what that was about_.

He would have his chance as the dinner party began to break up and people began to leave. Bridget approached with a very pleasant smile. "I came to show you upstairs," she said, "to your room for the night." 

"Oh, terrific," he said, then followed her up the staircase.

When they reached the landing at the second floor, they turned right, and the first door on the right she stopped and opened the door. "Here you are."

It was a magnificent room, with a very large bed and a broad expanse of windows; it was larger and more opulent than his own master bedroom with what was original, antique furniture. As he stepped forward, she spoke, which made him realise that he had been too gobsmacked to say a word.

"It's bigger than all good sense, isn't it?"

It took him a moment to realise she was kidding, and he laughed lightly. "It's a beautiful room," he said, "and I'm very grateful for your hospitality."

"Don't mention it," she said. "It'll be nice to have someone else around."

"I'm only here the night," he reminded.

"Oh," she said. "That's too bad. Maybe, though, we can have dinner."

He didn't follow, and the confusion must have been obvious.

"Sorry, I forgot to tell you," she said with a smile. "I was chatting with Lady Sarah earlier. She's invited me to help with a charity fashion show down in London. Arthur's idea. He thinks I could use the change of scenery."

"Ah," he said. That accounted for her change in demeanour. "When's that?"

"Beginning of next month," she said. "Oh, I can't _wait_."

"Clearly," he said with a grin. "If you don't care to stay in an impersonal hotel, perhaps you'll allow me to return the favour. My guest rooms aren't nearly this lavish, but they're very nice, and you are welcome to one if you'd like while in London."

"Thank you," she said, her brows drawing slightly together before she smiled. "Well, I'll leave you to it then. If you need anything just ring the phone and let us know." With that she turned for the door, but he asked:

"Bridget?"

She turned back. "Yes?"

"Feel a bit foolish for asking, but… where's the bath?"

She burst out with a laugh. "Sorry!" She strode into the room and pushed open a door he swore hadn't been there before. He was certain his skin had gone as dark as the cordovan leather on the divan near the windows. "Right in there." She was still grinning as she turned then walked back towards him. "Good night, Mark." With that she left the room, closing the door behind her.

The long day caught up with him at last, and he decided to prepare for bed. He grabbed his shaving kit and went to the newly revealed loo. He immediately was impressed by the bedroom-matching décor, the sheer size of the en suite, and the amenities like the full tub and shower… he had never been in a hotel with accommodations this nice, and in the overall scheme of the house, it was only a guest bedroom.

He decided he'd take a quick, refreshing shower before going to sleep; as the rain of water washed over his head, his mind quietened, and he found himself mulling her response to his offer of hospitality. 

_Thank you._

She hadn't said yes, but she hadn't said no… and the slight expression of confusion did not serve to tilt his opinion on the matter in one direction or another. _Perhaps it was intentional_ , he thought. Maybe she intended on talking it over with Arthur before giving an answer… and if he frowned on the idea, if he became jealous of the former childhood friend, she wouldn't even say anything to Mark and simply would dine with him as she'd originally offered.

As he stepped out of the shower and towelled off his hair, he decided that this must have been what had happened. In a subtle way, if Arthur asked her not to, Mark would never know why she had declined.

At least she was not refusing outright, though. He tried to be a little optimistic about it. Then he wondered why he should be. It wasn't as if anything was going to happen. She was married.

And yet. 

The prospect of getting to know her better, getting to know her _again_ , was something he could not deny relishing the thought of.

………

"Is our guest all settled?"

Bridget closed the door and turned just in time to see Arthur, out of his tuxedo jacket, undoing his tie then tugging it out from around his collar. "Yes, he seems to be," she said. She slipped out of the heels, bent over and picked them up.

"You looked really beautiful tonight."

She looked up as she rose to full height again, and felt her lip quirk in a little grin. "Thanks," she said. "You looked pretty dashing, yourself."

"Thanks," he echoed. He looked like he might say something more, but instead turned away; she could tell by the motion of his hands he was unbuttoning his shirt.

"I had a really nice night, Arthur."

"I'm glad that you did. Oh." He turned back to her, slipping out of his shirt. "Did you talk to Lady Sarah, then? Get all the details worked out?"

"I did. Early February."

"Terrific. I'll be busy in… oh hell. I've forgotten. France?"

"Thought you said it was Copenhagen."

He snapped his fingers. "You're right, you're right. Well, you hadn't much interest in going even further north in the dead of winter, so there you are."

"Yeah," she said.

"Shall I get your zip?"

"Yes please."

As she felt the silken movement of the zip opening down her back, he asked, "Will you need a room at The Plaza in London?"

"Um, no," she said. "I was considering staying with a friend."

"Oh, what a lovely idea. You're always talking about wanting to see more of your friends. I think you should."

She knew he was under the impression that she meant one of her uni pals like Jude or Sharon, but neither of them were exactly who she had in mind. She also did not correct the misapprehension.

As she slipped out of the dress, he stepped out of his trousers, then in an almost comical tandem slipped into pyjamas before heading into the bathroom. They stood side by side as they washed up for bed, speaking only to ask for the toothpaste or to pass a towel, before he left, followed closely behind by Bridget.

He was already under the covers, his bedside lamp switched off, his eyes closed. "Good night, Arthur," she said, standing there, looking down at him before climbing in beside him. 

Without opening his eyes, he said, "Good night, Bridget."

She turned off her own lamp, and curled into her pillow, the melancholy washing over her again. At least she had London to look forward to.


	2. Chapter 2

The seemingly brighter sky that morning was probably all in his imagination. Nature had no concern with respect to man-made units of time; surely the change to the first of February had nothing to do with anything. Merely a coincidence.

As the day progressed, however, Mark realised in hindsight that he could easily have taken it to be a good omen.

He was having a late lunch—alone, at his desk, eating a sandwich from a shop around the corner—when his personal mobile rang. He furrowed his brow; the incoming caller display was unfamiliar, but since he kept a tight rein on who had the number, he reasoned it must have been someone he knew.

"Mark Darcy speaking," he said cautiously, in case it turned out to be a misdial.

"Oh, hello." He had a discombobulating moment during which he knew the voice but could not place it, but then she continued speaking and all confusion vanished. "It's Bridget. Lady Thornton. Better known by you as used-to-be-Jones."

"Oh yes, of course," he said, sitting up stick straight in his chair, nearly knocking his coffee over in the process. "And what can I do for you?"

"If it isn't too much trouble," she said, "I would really like to take you up on your offer of hospitality."

He found himself at a loss for words. He had dismissed the very idea out of hand when he had not heard anything more on the subject.

"…if the offer still stands," she added.

"Of course it does," he said, clearing his throat. "When are you in town?"

"I'm here now," she said. "Having lunch at the Ivy. I'm so sorry for the last minute notice."

"It's quite all right," he said, suddenly immensely grateful for his orderly habits and his thrice-weekly housekeeper. He pushed out thoughts of his busy afternoon and said, "If you'd like, I can meet you at my house if you need somewhere to land, want a lie down, or, you know, if you just want to rest."

She laughed lightly. "You don't have to rearrange your day on my account," she said. "I'll do a bit of shopping, and can meet you at your house there when you're done with your work day." She sighed. "It's _so nice_ to be among people again. I know, I know… it won't last, but for now it's most welcome. So where do you live?"

He gave her his Holland Park address, told her he would likely be home by six; even though he had every intention of being there for her arrival, he said, "If I'm not… I'll let the housekeeper know it's all right to let you in."

"Brilliant," she said. "Just one small request."

"Yes?"

"Pizza," she said. "I've been craving a good pizza for dinner for eons, and they don't exactly have delivery up to Oakenshaw."

"Absolutely," he said. "I can take you to one of several—"

"Oh no, I want a night in," she said. "Sit back on a sofa, kick up my feet, indulge in pizza and white wine and forget about _everything_."

"I can make that happen," he said without hesitation. "What do you want on?"

"Ooooh," she said. "Pepperoni, I think. I have simple tastes when it comes to pizza. Harkens back to uni days."

"All right," he said. "I'll see you tonight, then."

He got through the rest of his day as quickly as possible, nervous anticipation roiling in his stomach. It was, he thought, almost as if he were preparing for a most anticipated first date… which he knew was ridiculous, yet there it was.

He arrived home with plenty of time to spare after a quick stop for a couple bottles of pre-chilled white wine, then rang in the pizza order to arrive at about half six. With that task accomplished, he set about to ensure that the house was tidy (it was), the guest room was ready (it was, too), and that the various remote controls worked (they did) on the chance she might want to wind down with a telly programme or a DVD.

At about quarter past the appointed hour of six, the bell rang. He scaled the stairs up from the lower level where the kitchen and sitting room were, straightened his tie, smoothed down his shirt front, then opened the door. 

His gaze fixed on her blue eyes, on her smile. "Ah," she said. "It's the right house, after all." She was bundled in a long winter coat, scarf, and gloves, with the tips of her shoes poking out from under the wide-legged trousers she wore. Her hair was drawn up into some kind of bun or twist. "At least I think it is."

He realised he hadn't said a thing, nor had he stepped aside to let her in. "Sorry, yes; I am not in fact an android," he joked. "Please come in. I'll take your coat."

She set down her suitcase and small bag with a quip about travelling light, pulled off her scarf, then unbuttoned down the front; he helped slip the coat from her shoulders and hung it on the coat rack in the foyer. He turned back to her. "Why don't I show you to your room?"

"Really nice house," she said quietly. "Very nice indeed. Cosy."

Of all the words he'd ever heard in reference to his house, 'cosy' had never been one of them, and he found himself smiling a little. He supposed that in comparison to a multi-storey hereditary country estate sprawling over acres and acres of land, his own house must have seemed quaint in comparison.

He preceded her up the stairs to the second floor, directly to the door of the guest room. Almost perfectly mirroring what she had done in her own home, he opened the door and said, "Here it is." 

She stepped inside, took a good look around; she seemed quite pleased with what she saw. "Very nice—quite comfortable-looking indeed." She turned to him with a smile. "I don't mean that in a condescending way. It really is lovely. I'm just—"

"I know," he said. "Used to Oakenshaw."

"Exactly!" She looked around, then laughed. "Oh. The bathroom?"

He laughed too as he lifted her suitcase and set it on the chest at the end of the bed. "Unfortunately it's not en suite, but it is the door directly across the hallway from yours. And you have the entire floor to yourself."

She furrowed her brows for a moment, then smiled. "Oh," she said. "You're one floor down."

He nodded. A vehicle passing down the street below reminded him that the pizza was due to arrive at any moment. "Well, why don't I…" he began, trailing off, gesturing towards the door.

"I'll just freshen up a bit before dinner," she said.

"Great," he said. "Whenever you're ready, come all the way down to the kitchen on the garden level."

He left her to freshen up and was one storey down when he heard the bell on the door ring. Quickly he descended to the ground floor; sure enough, it was the pizza delivery. He paid then took the boxes down one level more to the kitchen, set them down on the breakfast nook, then went to open the bottle of wine. 

………

Bridget closed the door behind Mark as he left, then surveyed the room again. It was indeed nice, indeed cosy, though a little more lacking in colour than she preferred. As she opened her case in order to find something more suitable to wear for a night on a sofa with pizza and wine, she reflected on her arrival that evening. The house was impressive from the street, with an austerely beautiful front façade, wrought iron gate, and tidy, perfectly manicured front garden that was roughly the size of a postage stamp. At this, she laughed quietly. _Must remember to keep perspective_ , she thought. _Even a postage stamp front garden in London is something to brag about._

After some deliberation—not that she had brought a wardrobe's worth of clothing with her—she decided on a warm jumper and a pair of denims that were soft and faded and perfect for relaxing. She stepped out of her low heels and changed out of the trousers and blouse she'd worn.

_And then there was Mark_ , she thought, further reflecting on her arrival. She had not really expected him to answer the door with a dress shirt and tie on, but on second thought realised he had probably only gotten home from work not too long before she had arrived. She smiled to herself as she tugged the jumper down; she was touched that he had put such a priority on her admittedly last-minute arrival. She figured that he'd probably stop on his way down and change into something cosier, too.

Before heading downstairs for dinner, she took her sponge bag into the nearby bathroom to unpin her hair and brush it out then touch up her makeup, daubing the powder over her nose and cheeks. She didn't suppose it mattered if she left the bag there in the bathroom since no one else was in the house, but she brought it back to her room anyway and hoped she'd just remember to ask about it.

When she descended to the lower floor, the garden level, the tantalising scent of pizza permeated the air and pleasantly filled her nose. However, the question of his attire came to the forefront of her mind again when she saw him standing there, his back to her, opening one cabinet door after another as if in search of something. Much to her embarrassment, she could only think how very nice indeed his backside looked in his finely tailored trousers. She raised her gaze then said, "I love it down here."

He visibly started, and turned to her. He was still wearing the tie, she noted. "Sorry. Didn't hear you come down. Was just looking for, er, the plates."

She raised her brows. "You don't know where the plates are?"

He looked so damned sheepish she started to chuckle. "I must admit that at this moment… I don't."

"Sometimes you do?" she said with a grin.

"I haven't been eating at home a lot lately. Dinner meetings, late at work…" he said, "I get a bit lazy and pick up takeaway."

"Can't recall the last time I had takeaway," she lamented. Then her gaze lit on the pizza boxes. "Well. Now I can say tonight."

He handed her a glass of wine, which she sipped to taste; it was very good. 

"I'll just find those plates," he said, returning his attention to his cupboards, "and then we can eat."

"Why not just go without?" she asked.

He turned back to her, and the look of horror on his face was unmatched. "No plates at the table?" 

This made her laugh again. "Who said anything about eating at a table?"

"If not at the table, then…" He trailed off. "Well. Wherever you would like to eat, we'll eat."

She went over to the boxes, set down her wine, picked up the pizza and walked purposefully towards the sofa. She heard him behind her; setting down the pizzas, she saw that he had brought her wineglass over. 

"Have a seat," he insisted, "and I'll bring over some napkins and the wine." He went back to the kitchen as she did as he'd suggested. It took him a moment to find the napkins. He called to her, "Feel free to put on the telly if you'd like."

"No, it's all right," she replied, putting the boxes down on the coffee table. "I'd rather just chat, if it's all the same to you. Maybe telly later." She opened the top box to see it was a plain cheese pizza. "I think they forgot the pepperoni."

"Try the other one."

She did as asked and sure enough, it was loaded with the stuff. "Are you vegetarian?"

He handed her a napkin and set the wine bottle down between them on the table. "No," he said, as he sat on the opposite end of the sofa from her. He reached for the box that was not open in order to pull it closer to him. "I just prefer a plain cheese pizza."

………

Mark focused on the pizza in order to tear his thoughts away from his surprise at seeing her appearing in the kitchen wearing such extremely casual clothes. Given the way she'd looked at the dinner party, the way she'd looked in her obviously couture clothing upon arrival, with her hair swept up and so professionally fixed, the change was rather a shock to his senses. 

"I get an entire pizza to myself," she mused. "Well, there's breakfast sorted." He looked up to her, and she winked as he did. "Kidding."

This made him chuckle. "So what exactly have you got planned whilst in London?"

"Well, I have a meeting with Lady Sarah tomorrow for lunch. We've done a lot of the event planning by phone and email, but there are things to finalise."

"And when's the event?"

"Friday night." As she said it she looked momentarily mortified. "Oh gosh. I never even told you how long I would be in London."

He waved his hand a little in a dismissive gesture. "Don't give it a thought. I am pleased to host you here as long as you need it." He took a bite, then washed it down with wine. "Anything else planned?"

"A little shopping. I'll need something for the event, but I also planned on picking up a few new items for my wardrobe whilst in town." She lifted her pizza as if to take a bite, then lowered it again. "That sounded awfully snobby, didn't it?"

"Not at all," he said. "Perfectly reasonable to do some clothes shopping while in London. Well, if there's anywhere you'd like to go, anything you'd like to see, and don't fancy going on your own, I'd be happy to take you."

"That is very kind," she said. "I have a few other friends I'd like to see, too, but I may yet take you up on it."

"Sure," he said. "Just let me know."

Of course she had other friends in London; he felt silly that it hadn't occurred to him sooner. However, he gave it no further thought when, at last, she took that bite; the sound she made was one of pure delight. As soon as she could speak, she said, "This is really excellent pizza!"

"It's the best in the area," he said. "I'm glad you like it."

"I can see why you'd say that," she said. "Though it could just be that I haven't had any in a while."

"I don't think so," he said. "It really is pretty good."

She smiled, then laughed. "So what is your week looking like?"

"Have got to be in court on Tuesday and Thursday, but the rest of my week is fairly wide open. A meeting here and there."

She looked intrigued. "Ooh, court. Anything you can talk about?"

"Oh, I can, but I'd likely bore you senseless."

"Try me," she said, a real challenge in her voice.

"All right," he said. "Both are immigration hearings. Two different clients are have requested asylum in the UK to avoid persecution in their respective home countries. I think case law and prior history of the countries in question are both on my side."

"Is that what you do all the time, like with the charity, too?"

"Not all the time," he said, "but it's a good portion of my work. It's not all consultation with Amnesty and foreign ambassadors."

"That sounds _really_ exciting though."

"I wouldn't call the marathon negotiations 'exciting' by any means."

"More exciting than taking the whippets for a walk," she said. "Rather, let them out into the pen and let them run around like mad."

"I don't know," Mark said. "That sounds pretty exciting to me."

"You have a strange concept of 'exciting'."

"So do you."

Simultaneously they both started to chuckle.

"I suppose," she said, "it's a manifestation of 'the grass is always greener' proverb. Like you said before, I mean."

He remembered exactly what he'd said before at the dinner party, when they'd been talking about London, and before that, her apparent dissatisfaction with her life as a countess. "Well… I wouldn't call watching whippets enjoying their freedom and bouncing around like unruly children 'super thrilling'."

"Actually, now that I think on it, it _is_ quite funny. They're all legs and speed."

"If I'm ever back in the area," he said, "I'd love to see this."

"Don't wait for some other reason to come up and visit. You'd be welcome anytime, Mark." She lifted her wineglass and took a long draw. "Hm. I… think it's time for another slice of pizza."

"You can polish off the whole box if you like."

"Oh, but what about breakfast?" she joked.

As she got another slice for herself, he reached for the wine bottle and topped up his glass. "I'd love some more, too." He did as asked. "Mmm. Really great dinner. Thanks again."

"My pleasure."

They talked a little more, ate a little more, drank a little more; in fact, he even opened another bottle of the white as they switched on a film on the telly. What they did, what they spoke of (mostly running commentary over the absurd picture), he could hardly recall by the end of the evening. What stood out to him was how odd it was that he felt so comfortable, so familiar, so at ease with her already.

It was nice, but also very, _very_ dangerous.

As the film ended he saw that it was nearing midnight; she noticed at about the same time. "Oh, my goodness," she said. " _Midnight_. Wow, time does fly when you're having fun. Should go to bed. Oof." This last utterance occurred as she stood, or at least tried to stand, but it took a little effort. "Haven't had this much wine in a while," she said with obvious embarrassment, wobbling on her feet.

"Allow me to help you upstairs." 

Slowly they ascended, side by side, up the stairs, past the ground and first floors to the second. He had his arm around her to prevent her falling backwards.

"I'll be fine from here," she said. "I promise."

"You're sure?"

"I just said I promise."

He smiled. "Good night," he said. "If you need anything let me know."

"I'll start stomping on the floor, then, shall I?" she said with a grin, then proceeded to demonstrate in a bit unsteady fashion.

He laughed. "You can ring my mobile if you need to. Well. Good night, then."

"Night," she said in reply.

He then closed the door behind himself, turned and descended the stairs to his own room. He undressed then washed up for bed, and as he did, his thoughts turned to replaying the evening over in his head. He hadn't been sure how the evening would go or what to expect, but it had been surprisingly casual and informal, and it'd also been a great deal of fun. His default state of loneliness seemed all too evident now.

Other friends in London. This thought surfaced as he climbed into bed. If she had other friends in London, why had instead she chosen to stay with him, a man she hardly knew? He couldn't really come up with a good answer, though conceded that the more than normal amount of wine of which he had partaken probably had something to do with the lack of clarity of his thoughts.

He fell quickly to sleep amidst thoughts of his day and of possibilities for the next week.

………

Upon waking Saturday morning, Bridget experienced the momentarily discombobulating sensation of having no idea where she was. The slight throb of a headache did not help to clear the confusion any faster, but then she remembered: she was in London, in one of Mark Darcy's guest bedrooms. Though it was quite muffled due to the surrounding neighbourhood, she could still hear the din of traffic of the city, and she smiled. 

She had become well accustomed to the early mornings and early evenings living out in the country, so a glance at her phone telling her it was eight a.m. did not surprise her at all. She wandered out across the hall and into the bath, toting her sponge bag with her—and making the executive decision to just leave it there—then, when finished with brushing out her hair and applying a bit of makeup, went back to dress for the day before heading down to the kitchen.

To her surprise, Mark was already there, deciding upon then pressing the button on a coffee maker; the uncertainty with which he did this told her he rarely used it. "Good morning," she said. 

He turned at the sound of her voice; she could not help noticing that, once again, he was dressed to the nines in nothing less than a suit and tie. "Good morning," he said with a smile. "You seem to have made a habit of surprising me in my own kitchen. But don't apologise. How did you sleep? Well, I hope?" 

"Very well, though if you've got something for a headache with that coffee, I'd be most grateful."

"Absolutely," he said. "There's some just there in the loo." He began to walk towards said loo, but she halted him with a raised hand.

"Mark, I can get that myself. You tend to the coffee maker."

She started to walk away, heard him comment that he usually just got a cup at the local shop on his way to work. This made her smile, though in a rather bittersweet manner. He obviously was optimistic about having someone in his future, with a house of this size, coffee maker, a dining room, a deluxe kitchen… but for whatever reason was here on his own. She wondered if he had a girlfriend ( _Boyfriend? No_ , she decided, g _irlfriend_ ), for no other reason other than curiosity. Certainly not for any other reason.

She mused that in some ways he seemed to be a man from another era; wearing a suit and tie to serve her breakfast seemed a bit over the top, and eating delivery pizza at a dining table seemed unnatural and wrong. He also had the neatest, most meticulously kept medicine cabinet she had ever seen.

"Did you find what you needed?" he asked upon her return.

"I did. Very easy to find. Practically alphabetised in there."

He grinned almost sheepishly. "I do like to keep things orderly."

"Clearly," she said. "If housekeeping were left to me, Oakenshaw would be a shambles."

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "go ahead have a seat at the breakfast bar. I don't know what you prefer for breakfast, but I've got yoghurt, muesli… er, I could make some oatmeal; I think in the freezer there are some croissants that wouldn't take but a few minutes—"

"Chocolate?" she interrupted. "If they're chocolate croissants, you have hit the bull's eye."

"I believe we have a winner," he said with a chuckle. "Let me get that started, but first, coffee." He pulled a mug closer. "Do you take it with milk and sugar?"

She was perfectly capable of pouring and fixing her own coffee, but realised at this point he had every intention of attending to her solicitously. She found she rather enjoyed it; it seemed to her less of being a duty for him, and more like a pleasure. "Yes, please."

With an air of concentration and diligence, he poured the coffee, then dropped in three sugar cubes and some milk, and then gave it a stir. "It's coming back to me, you know," he said with a grin, then turned to her with the coffee. "Where things are."

"That's good," she said. "I mean, to know the contents of your own kitchen."

"Stayed up all night memorising it," he said jokingly.

She sipped the coffee; it was a bit stronger than she liked, but very good indeed. She watched him so carefully take the chocolate croissant from the freezer, put it onto a plate, and put it into the camouflaged microwave. She could stand not knowing any longer, and asked, "I hope I didn't ruin any weekend plans you might have had with your girlfriend."

He turned back to her. "You didn't," he said. "Well, you might have done had I a girlfriend, but I'm not sure I would have minded this interruption even if I did."

The comment seemed curiously flirtatious to her ears. "You're too kind."

"After all," he added, "you don't really get to renew an acquaintance from childhood every day." There was then a loud beep. "Ah. It's done."

He brought her the plate where she sat as well as a fork and a knife. She chuckled, a bit in her embarrassment at thinking he might possibly have been flirting, and in that he thought she might need cutlery for a chocolate croissant. She poked at the pastry to gauge exactly how hot it was, then picked it up and took a big bite.

She glanced to him to see his expression (fairly surprised) as she swallowed then washed it down with coffee. "I may be a countess," she said, "but I haven't forgotten how to eat a chocolate croissant."

This caused him to laugh out loud. "Touché," he said. He reached for another frozen pastry, this time out of a box clearly marked 'plain'. As if he'd spotted her watching, he said, "I'm partial to apricot jam."

Within a minute or so they were sitting side by side at the breakfast bar, each with a coffee and a croissant, eating in relative silence. It was enough to have his company, when so often she ate breakfast alone; Arthur was often up and out long before she arose, or was away on business of some kind.

"If there's anything you want," he said suddenly as he dragged the last of his croissant through the remnants of the apricot jam, "just let me know. Any preferences for breakfast you have, I mean, or for dinner. If you'd rather not go out for dinner, that is."

"More of those—" She pointed to her own empty, chocolate-smeared plate. "—wouldn't hurt my feelings." Not one to waste good chocolate, she wiped it up with a finger then licked it off.

"I'll make a note for the housekeeper," he said abruptly. "And dinner…?"

"I still owe you dinner," she said. "After all, I invited you back in January."

"Very true," he said, "but the rest of the week…"

"Whatever you usually have, I'm sure will be fine," she said. "Though don't you usually have takeaway?"

"I'll whip myself into shape with company around."

"I look forward to that."

They both went a bit quiet, almost as if they simultaneously realised the double meaning. Then, equally simultaneously, they both started to laugh.

"That was really bad," he said. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, it was funny," she said, though she felt herself blushing; it had been so long since she and Arthur had been intimate, not since they'd celebrated their anniversary in October. "Terrible, but funny."

………

He'd regretted the suggestive words as soon as he'd said them, but fortunately she had begun to chuckle just as he had. His relief was immense. He had no idea from where that had come. It was not as if he were sexually frustrated; his last rendezvous with Natasha had just been after the Halloween fancy dress party. He guessed it just seemed to be too inappropriate with a countess, and a married woman no less.

Perhaps this was magnified because he recognised he was attracted to her.

"Well," she continued, "this should keep me going for the next little bit, until lunch with Lady Sarah."

"Ah, yes," he said with a snap of his fingers, "let me get you something so you're not dependent on me to come and go." He went to the wall where the key rack was, and pulled from it a fob on which the key to his house was attached. "Here you are. Key. And security code is—" He leaned forward to tell her in a whisper.

"Thanks," she said, then offered a tender smile before proceeding more tentatively: "You know, I appreciate the effort of you dressing up, but you needn't do it for my benefit."

This surprised him, so to be absolutely sure he understood, he asked, "Dressing up?"

"Not even Arthur wears suits to breakfast," she said with a smile.

He bristled a bit. "I find suits very comfortable," he said. "I prefer to wear them."

Her face went bright crimson. "Oh, God. I'm so sorry."

Any offence he might have taken at her comment melted away in seeing how utterly discomfited she was. He smiled, then laughed. "I realise I can be quite anachronistic at times," he said.

Her blush quickly faded and she smiled again. "Strange, more like," she teased. "Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to head back upstairs, do some last minute preparation before the meeting."

"If you need to borrow a desk…" he began.

"I think I'll be fine," she said. "The chair in the bedroom looks more than adequate."

"Great. I'll just be in the office on the ground floor taking care of a little work," he said. "It's the door to your right at the top of the stairs as you come up from the kitchen."

"Ah yes, I recall. Thanks."

With that she left the kitchen. As soon as she disappeared from view, he collected their plates and put them into the dishwasher, then went to his office to review the papers as he had planned. However, not very long into this endeavour his telephone rang, and it was his housekeeper, Cassie, who to his dismay was calling to advise that she would be unable to come in the whole of the upcoming week.

"I'm so sorry to hear this," he said. "Nothing too serious, I trust?"

"Sprained my ankle in the garden," Cassie said. "I'm fine, but the doctor says to stay off of it so that I don't make it worse."

"Well, you must do as your doctor says," Mark said, inwardly thinking the timing couldn't have been worse; he could have arranged for a replacement but he had such a good rapport (and sense of trust) with Cassie that he immediately rejected the very idea. 

After this disruption he gave up on trying to work, and thought he might go for a run despite the chill in the air… or better still, down to his fitness club for a little squash. He went up to find his guest to let her know only to find her coming down from the upper floor as if in a rush to leave.

"Sorry, Mark, my minicab's here."

"Minicab?" he asked.

"To lunch."

Involuntarily he glanced to the clock, and saw that it was nearing noon. He'd been in the office a lot longer than he'd thought. "I could have taken you."

"I didn't want to bother you."

"In future, don't consider it a bother to ask," he said sternly.

He could tell she was fighting a smile; for what reason he could not fathom, at least until she said playfully, "Yes, Daddy," before bursting out into a laugh. He watched with a sense of incredulity as she then went past him for her coat and scarf. Was this really the same quietly aloof woman from the dinner party?

Maybe London really _was_ where she needed to be.

After she left, he decided to go for that run, after all.

………

Lunch with Lady Sarah was exactly as Bridget expected it would be. That was neither condemnation nor praise; it was what it was, from the venue to the food, the conversation to the gossip. Bridget was very glad most of the business had been dealt with over the long distance, and it wasn't as if she didn't enjoy herself—Lady Sarah had even seemed to cut back extensively on the perfume—but she found herself wanting to be away from…

Well, those things that reminded her of life as a countess.

Lady Sarah offered her car to take Bridget back to Mark's home in Holland Park, and as Bridget was unsure about the availability of a minicab (after a quick consultation of her phone, on which she had stored his address), she accepted; Lady Sarah's own home was in Mayfair, but the woman didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. "You're not staying at The Plaza? Staying with friends, then?" Lady Sarah asked as they rode together.

"Yes," Bridget said. "You might remember him from our last dinner party? Mark Darcy—we were friends as children."

"Oh, Mark Darcy, yes, _quite_ an impressive figure," she said with a smile. "He is whip-smart. Really very knowledgeable about so many topics! And… well, _very_ handsome."

Bridget realised in that moment she might have made a tactical error in telling Lady Sarah about with whom she was staying; she hadn't even told Arthur she was staying with Mark. She made a note to ring up Arthur immediately to get in front of the story, as the saying goes. "He _is_ very smart," said Bridget, "and has been an excellent host. I've got an entire storey to myself."

"He seemed very much the gentleman, indeed," said Lady Sarah.

Soon enough—or rather, not soon enough—the driver turned the corner onto Mark's street and they were saying their goodbyes. "Talk to you soon!" said Lady Sarah, then added, "Since your husband is in Copenhagen, maybe Mr Darcy can accompany you on Friday!"

As the car drove off, Bridget felt like an utter dolt. She had totally forgotten that Arthur was out of the country, and doubly doltish for not even giving a thought to asking Mark to go with her on Friday. Telling herself she should do both at the earliest convenience, she mindlessly dug out the key fob he had given to her, slid the key in the lock to open the door, and turned—

And promptly realised she had forgotten the alarm code.

She heard the tell-tale short beep counting down the seconds until it was going to go off full bore, and she began to panic. The harder she tried to bring up the memory of the number, the more elusive it became.

It was going to go off, the police were going to come by, she was going to be arrested for trespassing… where the hell was Mark?

"Shit," she hissed to herself. "Shit!"

"No need for that sort of language."

Nerves already on edge, she shrieked, jumped, and turned around to face her host, all in a quick movement. He stood there, clearly having just come in behind her, looking as if he had gone out for a run. The change in his attire from a business suit earlier to a track suit now was nearly as shocking as his sudden appearance. Quick as lightning, he reached around her and punched in the code; the device went stone silent.

"I am so sorry," she said, her hand to her throat as if to keep her heart from leaping up into it. "I don't know _what_ happened."

He made some kind of suggestion about entering it into her mobile somewhere, but she was not paying close attention, because she realised that she _did_ know what happened: when he'd leaned in to give her the code, she had been unexpectedly distracted by the clean scent of him, his close proximity, his towering height, and the smooth skin of his cheek… such that the numbers had gone in one ear and out the other.

"Bridget? Yes or no?"

She shook her head as if that could clear her thoughts. "I'm sorry," she said. "Will you repeat the question?"

"I was wondering if you'd made plans for this evening, or if I should have a look through my pantries for dinner."

"No," she said. "No plans. I could take you for that dinner I promised."

He looked thoughtful, then said, "You know, I'm in a bit of a mood to cook. Plus…" He indicated his casual clothing. "Not that it would take me quite that long to shower and change, but…"

"I understand." She remembered she needed to ring Arthur. "I have a few things to take care of anyway. Related to the fashion show."

"I'll be upstairs," he said, indicating upwards with a crooked thumb. "Feel free to use my office if you need a desk, or to make a call."

She had intended on using her mobile, but thought it might be nice to have a professional setting for the call she needed to make. "Thanks. We'll reconvene for dinner, then."

"Sounds like a plan."

With that they went their separate ways; Mark to the stairs upward, and Bridget to the office. She closed the door behind her. 

The décor of the office was very different than the rest of the house; perhaps it was because it was the room in which he spent most of his time: the walls were a fawn brown with a slight leather texture to them; the woodwork along the floor and ceiling was a dark mahogany; there were drapes drawn back from a pair of panes of windows, which flanked French windows. Beyond this array was a balcony, and beyond that was gorgeous view of his back garden, which surprised her in its colour: all manner of bright flowers—irises, daffodils, snowdrops—lined the border along the hedge and fence, and in the middle was a verdant patch of grass. On the wall perpendicular to this one was another large window, Roman-style blinds that were raised halfway. It was this window that his desk faced. The view was of the top edge of the hedge bordering the house next door and a broad expanse of sky; today was fortunately somewhat brighter, almost even verging on blue. The enormous executive-style desk was of a similar mahogany; the chair behind the desk and accompanying office furniture were all upholstered in rich cordovan leather; the carpet was an equally rich ochre. It was a bold room, one that struck her as authoritative yet warm; it was almost manly, she thought, in stark contrast to the delicate flower garden beyond.

_Phone call_ , she scolded herself, then pulled out her mobile and tapped the button to dial Arthur's. It rang a few times before he picked up.

"Love," he said automatically. "How's London treating you?"

She smiled, walking over to the window to peer out. "It's treating me just fine," she said. "I had lunch with Lady Sarah today, and everything's all set for Friday. Going to do a bit of shopping whilst I'm here. And how's Denmark?"

"Frightfully cold," he said. "But not unexpected."

"Very true," she said. She then decided to press on. "Did I tell you where I was staying in case you can't reach me by mobile?" 

"You know, I don't think you did," he said.

She briefly thought about fibbing, saying the original offer to stay with one of her old uni friends had fallen through, but she had never lied to Arthur, and wasn't going to start now. "With Mark Darcy, of all people," she said. "He offered when I mentioned my visit, said it might be nicer than staying at a hotel. I've got the whole of the second floor to myself."

He didn't say anything at first; clearly that was the last thing he'd expected to hear. "Oh, that's nice," he said at last; his voice sounded a bit tight.

For some reason his response bothered her, and she felt her temper rise. This was exactly why she hadn't wanted to say anything; his jealousy was bound to surface. "That doesn't exactly sound sincere, Arthur," she said defensively.

"Forgive me if your waiting to tell me this until you're already there is putting me off a bit," he replied gruffly.

"I didn't think you would be that bothered by it," she said. "You know Mark. You know me. It's not as if I have ever given you cause to think I'd be unfaithful."

"Odd that this is the first thing you think of, don't you think?"

She let out an exasperated breath. " _I_ am not the one acting irrationally jealous. Just as I knew you might, which is why I was reluctant to say anything sooner."

"And yet you accepted the offer, anyway."

"I didn't want to stay at The Plaza!" she said. "It's much nicer to stay in the privacy of someone's home. I don't like being waited on and deferred to—you know that. He offered—"

"You might have stayed with one of your friends, or with Lady Sarah, even!" he interrupted, the volume of his voice rising.

The silence was resounding. She took in a deep breath, calming herself, before speaking again.

"Arthur. After all of this time, do you really not trust me?" she asked. "Is that what this is really about?"

He exhaled roughly. "Of course I trust you," he said.

"Well, it doesn't bloody feel like it," she said. 

"Why did you call?" he persisted. "Why did you even tell me now?"

"You sound like you would prefer I lie to you," she said. She sighed; she felt the fight go out of her. "I can't do this right now, Arthur. Not over the phone. Not without being able to see you, your face, your body language…"

When he spoke, he too sounded resigned. "When we get back, then," he said. "Perhaps long overdue, love."

"Perhaps," she said. She felt tears welling in her eyes; probably just the emotion catching up with her. She fought them back with a sniff. "I'd never betray you."

"I know," he said. "Intellectually, I know." He sighed again, then cleared his throat. "Tell Mark hello for me."

"I will," she said. "Bye."

She rang off then leaned back into a chair she didn't remember dropping into. She wondered why she _had_ taken Mark up on his offer, and not agreed to stay with Sharon or Jude. Had she hoped it might catalyse the exact discussion they'd just had? She didn't know why she would purposely do such a thing. What was it that she really wanted?

"A tissue," she said quietly before the tears came at last. The emotional release was welcome as much as it was aggravating. She did not want to be found in such a state, especially not by Mark. She needed to be strong. She needed to figure out what to do.

Luckily, Mark had an obliging box of tissues cleverly disguised as a miniature Chinese chest sitting on his desk, as if camouflaged to matched the décor. She might never have noticed if Arthur hadn't something similar on his own desk. After sitting at the immaculately organised desk and availing herself of several, she sniffed, drew herself up to her height, then decided to find the ground floor loo (she knew there had to be one) to ensure the effects hadn't been too visible.

She found it, and after close inspection decided the damage wasn't too bad, though patted a bit of water onto her cheeks and wiped some stray mascara away from under her eyes. She smoothed down her hair, opened the door, and nearly walked directly into her host.


	3. Chapter 3

Right away Mark could tell that something was not quite right. Her eyes seemed slightly reddened, as did the tip of her nose, and her eye makeup was much diminished; drawing his brows together, he asked her if she was okay.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she said. Before he had a chance to say anything more, she said with a smile, "I was just checking to make sure I hadn't sprouted a beard in your office. You know. From the manliness of it all." 

He chuckled a little in return. He didn't quite believe she was fine, but he wasn't going to press her, despite the urge he felt—sudden, slightly alarming, and somewhat foreign to him—to hold her in his arms and comfort her. Instead he asked a rather neutral, "Did you get your business sorted?"

The response this elicited surprised him: she stammered a "No," burst into tears, then brought her hands to her face. 

At this he put his arm around her shoulders and led her into his office, then to sit on the leather settee. "Come, sit down." He went to retrieve the tissue box from his desk—noticing the box had been opened since he'd replaced it—then joined her on the seat.

"I'm sorry," she said, taking one and pressing it to her face. 

"Don't apologise," he said. Tentatively, he asked, "Is it something to do with Arthur?"

"Yes," she said, looking to him in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I didn't figure you would be so upset over the charity fashion show that you're in tears."

She smiled with a sniff, daubing at her eyes again. "I don't know," she said. "You should see some of Lady Sarah's ideas." He smiled in return at this evidence that her mood was brightening again. "You can if you want to; see her ideas, I mean. Would you like to come on Friday with me?"

"Absolutely," he said. He patted the back of her hand, then realised with a sense of immense impropriety that he was holding that hand with his other one. He let her hand go. "Sorry."

"Please don't apologise," she said, taking the hand he'd relinquished to brush her fringe from her eyes. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For the support," she said, "and for not insisting on details."

"That would be barbarous," he said. "What goes on between you and your husband is none of my business. As your friend, I'm here for you."

She laughed again. "Barbarous," she repeated. "Lady Sarah would pry."

"Then she's just gone down in my estimation." He stood. "Why not let's go down to the kitchen? You can put on a film or watch the telly or something, and I'll survey the inventory of my food stores for dinner."

"I'd like to help," she said as she rose. "I mean, I'm not hugely proficient overall in the kitchen, but I'd like to feel useful. Takes my mind off of things."

"Okay," he said. "Let's see what I've got."

As it turned out, Cassie had baked some chicken breast on her last day in on Thursday, before her injury. He spotted a bowl of eggs in the back, ones which bore the tell-tale signs of having been boiled with an onion skin to distinguish them from the usual raw ones.

"I know," he said, turning to her. "How about chicken salad?"

"Ooh," she said, brightening further. "Sounds so summery. Do you have any eggs?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Already boiled, I think." He pulled out the bowl, brought it to the kitchen island. A quick tap of an egg against the counter verified they were indeed boiled. "Care to peel?"

"Sure," she said. "Too bad you don't have one of those egg-peeler things."

"I might in this kitchen," he joked, taking out the chicken. "Who knows."

"Chicken's already done too?" she asked. He nodded. "Wow. You're terribly efficient, aren't you?"

He laughed. "Cassie is, anyway."

"Cassie?"

"My housekeeper," he clarified. "Who has hurt her ankle and won't be in this week, so I'll have to be extra tidy."

"Oh," she said. 

He found a bowl for her to put the eggs into, another for the shells—"I save them for the gardener, for the roses," he explained—and with that she peeled and he began cutting the chicken into bite-sized chunks.

………

Peeling eggs was something she had not done since she was in uni; there was something very peaceful about it, particularly as the eggshells were slipping off quite easily. It gave her time to think about what had just occurred. In that moment between his saying the name "Cassie" and his revealing that Cassie was his housekeeper, a flash of something unfamiliar flashed up in her, something that was uncomfortably like jealousy. It was ridiculous, because she was married, and he was perfectly entitled to have a girlfriend if he liked—but he'd said he didn't, and perhaps the jealousy was because she thought he was…. _What?_ she asked herself. _Lying to me?_

"I'm done with the eggs," she said. "I can cut them up if you like."

"Sure."

Within a few minutes more they had the necessary components for a good chicken salad. He found the mayonnaise and the pickle; she went looking in the food pantry and found an unopened box of cream crackers.

"I'll get some wine," said Mark. "Is it white with chicken salad and cream crackers?"

"But of course," she said, raising her nose in the air in mock snootiness. They held straight faces until neither could stand it anymore, and in sync, they both burst out with a little laugh.

He brought the tray of food over to the sofa, obviously in deference to what she had preferred the night before, then returned to the kitchen for the bottle of wine and two wineglasses. She wasted no time in pulling out a cracker, digging her fork into the chicken salad and spreading it over the surface before taking a bite. It was one of the better chicken salads she'd ever eaten.

"This feels so nice," she said. "Like we're having a picnic. I can almost forget it's February." She leaned back and had another bite. 

"It's _very_ nice," he said. "It's been a while since I've gotten to make this. My mother's recipe, I mean."

"It is very good," she said. "So how long has it been since you've been back? To Grafton Underwood, I mean?"

"I usually take a trek up about once a month," he said. "And you?"

"Far too long," she said with a sigh. "I talk with my mum very often though. My dad's not much for the phone." She chuckled. "Sometimes I get so lonely up north that I welcome even my mum's mad phone calls."

"Would you like to go see them?"

Her eyes flashed to him. "What?"

"We could drive up there," he said. "It'd be no trouble. Tomorrow, even, if you've nothing planned."

"Really?"

"I'm about due for a visit," he said, "and I'm sure my parents would love to see you again."

"I should probably ensure they're going to be around," she said, suddenly excited by the prospect, "but, yes. I'd like that very much."

He smiled warmly at her. "Terrific." He had a bite of his own dinner. "May I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she said, biting back the playful urge to remind him that he just had.

"It doesn't seem that you think very much of Lady Sarah," he said. "Why did you accept working with her? I mean, aside from the opportunity to come to London—which you're obviously free to do anytime you like."

She thought of which thing in particular she might have done or said to give Mark the impression that she didn't like Lady Sarah, but realised whatever it was, he was right. "Underneath that poisonous and pervasive scent," she said, "she is friendly enough."

"But she pries into your personal life," he said. "You said so yourself."

"Arthur encourages me to keep her as a friend."

"You know what they say," he said. "With friends like that…"

"I know…" she said, trailing off. "But it's nice to have _some_ friends in our circle."

He looked quite chagrined. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I didn't mean anything—"

"I know," she said, interrupting. "It's okay." She smiled to let him know she wasn't cross. "Believe me, she's the least offensive of the women in that circle."

"And what about her husband? How does Arthur know her?"

"She and Arthur have known each other since their own uni years. She and her husband split a while ago. He went for something younger and stupider, to be frank." 

Mark burst out with a laugh. "Sorry, shouldn't be laughing at the misfortune of others, but…"

"Laugh away," she said, waving her hand. "Lady Sarah laughs too, since the money and the title were all hers. His money dried up pretty quickly after he didn't have a rich wife to support the lifestyle to which he had become accustomed."

He leaned forward for his glass of wine, had a long sip, then sat back; this was when she realised precisely how physically close together they were sitting, or rather, how close together they had moved during the course of eating. Judging from his expression, he realised the same simultaneously, and pushed himself away on the cushion.

"Sorry."

………

They each apologised at the same time, but if Mark were to be truthful, he had no wish to move further away; he was only sorry for improperly impinging on her personal space. He found he rather liked having her in close proximity, as much as he shouldn't. He liked seeing her eyes, so blue and bright, from a much shorter distance. He liked the perfume she used, subtle and fresh, and perceptible only when near to her ( _Unlike Lady Sarah_ , he thought, _who bathed in a vat of whatever that perfume was_ ). He appreciated that, even with her makeup mostly cried off, she still looked pretty, maybe even prettier than _with_ makeup (in his estimation); her skin was still quite smooth and youthful even close up.

She looked away, breaking the gaze at last. "It's getting late," she said. "Maybe we should go to bed." At this her face flushed red as she looked to him again. "I mean, if we're driving to Grafton Underwood tomorrow and want an early start, we should retire now."

"I knew what you meant," he said with a chuckle, trying to break the weird tension that had built, even as his heart had involuntarily leapt at her misspeak. Damn him for thinking this way about her. Damn Arthur for being lucky enough to have her.

She smiled. "Okay."

In relative quiet they brought their plates to the counter. Mark figured he could come down early in the morning and load the dishes into the dishwasher.

"Are you going to call your mum?" he asked as they ascended the stairs.

"What? Oh, about tomorrow? Ah, I'll just surprise them. They don't usually get up to much on a Sunday." They got to the first floor, Mark's floor; she turned to him. "Thanks for a very good dinner, and a nice night," she said. "I'm very much looking forward to tomorrow."

He said good night to her, went into his room and shut the door with a firm click; he then strode to his bathroom to wash up for the night. He tried to think of logistics for the drive, visiting his own parents as well as hers, but now that he'd gotten her into his head he couldn't seem to get her out, not through brushing his teeth, washing his face, or undressing. Once left alone to his thoughts in his bed—king-sized and exceptionally lonely that night—they only became worse.

His downfall was wondering if she slept as he did, in the nude. His thoughts moved in rapid escalation: imagining what she looked like as she did; wondering if the skin of her body was as lovely, soft and creamy as the skin of her face and throat; wondering how it might feel to touch that skin, kiss it, graze his teeth on it—

Roughly he turned over, trying to shake these traitorous thoughts from his head, but it was no use. He was not going to be able to sleep in this state. He had to give in without giving in, embrace the lusty thoughts he had of her if only in his mind, imagining every step of the way, every stroke, that she was there with him. He quickly found satisfaction of a sort, even if he was not proud of having done so with the object of his desire only one storey above him… and not proud of thinking that it was more satisfying than the real thing had been with Natasha.

He hoped, as he dozed off at last, that it would make the week easier for him, make keeping his composure in such close proximity more tenable.

………

Bridget was still kicking herself. Why had she even drawn attention to her misspeak? It was meant innocently enough, and if not for the blush and the stumble to explain herself, he never would have known the unintended double entendre. 

She stood in the bathroom, washing with unwarranted roughness the scant amount of makeup that remained. _Out, damned spot_ , she thought, leaning on the sink, staring in the mirror and into her own eyes. _Feeling guilty, are we, Countess?_

Guilty, she was feeling. She could not help but think of the way he had stoked an ember in her after so many months of feeling very little in the way of physical yearning. Mark, a man who was not her husband. She was not supposed to feel this way. Not supposed to want another man.

She changed into her pyjamas and slipped into bed; the house was buffered against the usual London sounds so all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. 

And then something else.

At first she thought it was a cry of pain from the floor below, distant and muffled, and she became instantly alert and aware in her concern. When it occurred again, longer and more protracted, she realised it was _definitely_ not a cry of pain but quite the opposite… and she felt a blush suffuse her skin from head to toe. She knew exactly what it was she had just heard, a man who had no awareness or control of what his voice was doing, and her body betrayed her in a most uncomfortable way.

So did her thoughts. She found herself hoping that he was thinking of her… and then the guilt returned threefold. _Terrible_ , she thought. _So terrible of me to wish such a thing. To not only want another man—but to want him to want me!_

She began to think that the talk with Arthur was going to go in a whole different direction. Just two days in London had demonstrated how unhappy she was with too many areas of her life, a dissatisfaction that she could only discern once she was far enough away from it to see the bigger picture.

If only she could have that talk with Arthur sooner. The anticipation and the dread would only get worse until she could.

………

Mark had hoped Sunday morning wouldn't be awkward for him. To look her in the eye as they'd had breakfast might have been wholly impossible. Much to his delight, though, he found that the day started out just fine, and as it progressed it had gotten even better. The drive was lively and they chatted about many things. In quieter moments, he thought he'd detected something sombre about her, though as time passed, ultimately decided he'd just misread things.

As they were heading into the town, Bridget had noticed her parents' Fiesta sitting in front of a house with which he too was familiar, one that belonged to Una and Geoffrey Alconbury. It was serendipitous that his own parents had been present; it made the visit less disjointed. Her parents had been thrilled by the surprise appearance. He was amused to see them treat her likely as they always had; no deferring to title, and her mother lamenting (as mums sometimes do) that she would never hear the pitter-patter of little feet, though this comment clearly made her uncomfortable. His father Malcolm made it worse (judging by her expression) by asking when there might be a baby on the way, so he tried changing the subject by asking Bridget if she might like a drink.

"Oh yes, please," she'd said. "In fact, I'll go with you."

The rest of the day he had been solicitous and attentive to her—perhaps in feeling guilty for what he'd done the night before, or in bringing so much negative attention about children upon her—and they decided to depart in time to get dinner back in London. She seemed happy, though, about the entire day in general, and the scene of her giving her father a hug goodbye was one of the more touching things he'd seen.

Now they were on their way back to London in the light of a fading day; she seemed far less chatty than on the way up, gazing out of the window to the landscape beyond, but he chalked it up to just being tired.

When she spoke, it surprised him.

"I feel I owe you an explanation," she said quietly; he could see out of the corner of his eye that she had turned to look at him.

"You don't owe me anything, Bridget," he said in a kind voice. 

"Then I _want_ to give you an explanation," she said. "About what my mum said about grandchildren, and why I reacted that way. Your father said something too, but he at least has an excuse."

"An excuse?" he asked.

"I'm sure he doesn't know," said Bridget. "Crikey, I'm being dramatic and mysterious, and I don't mean to. It's just that… we can't have children, and my mother knows it. Specifically, Arthur. He's sterile."

"Oh," Mark said rather stupidly. Questions flashed through his mind, questions she had probably been asked _ad infinitum_ before: What's the cause? Producing too few sperm, or none at all? Can't anything be done, with the technological advances in the last decade? He thought about asking, but didn't. There was a resignation in her voice that had stilled his own.

"I brought up adoption once," she said. "I'd hoped the suggestion would be warmly received, that it would help to repair our relationship after such a blow." She then laughed a little without mirth. "I was roundly shot down. He wanted a biological child or no child at all. Someone else's castoff was apparently not good enough for the future Earl of Oakenshaw."

Mark was briefly rendered speechless, but after a moment found the words. "That's a horrible thing to say."

She nodded. "I know," she said. "He apologised, and I've done my best to forgive him. I'm afraid, though, that we never really recovered after that. Obviously… we did not adopt." She went quiet. "I've never told anyone that before, not even my mum."

"Your secret is safe with me." She had not needed to ask outright.

"Somehow," she said, "I knew it would be."

The ride continued on in relative silence, though it was not an uncomfortable one. She dozed off and he was loath to wake her. _Never really recovered after that_ , he thought again and again, wondering what precisely she meant. He didn't think there could be a whole lot of leeway in her words. The severity of what had never recovered was an unknown; merely a sore spot that was never spoken of again, or a marriage teetering on the brink of failure? Surely the former. They had seemed so happy at the dinner party.

Before he knew it they were edging closer to the heart of London and to his house; as if sensing the return to the city, she roused and woke. "Sorry about that," she said sleepily. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Quite all right," he said. "I was thinking of picking up some Thai instead of cooking. Driving is a bit rough on a person."

"Thank you for doing it, by the way."

"I promise I wasn't fishing for a thank you."

She grinned. "I know. And yes, Thai sounds very good indeed. Dinner out, my treat, will have to wait another night."

He returned to the house, phoned for food and left her to relax while he went to pick it up.

………

Bridget was forced to admit to herself that it felt pretty nice to not be her. She felt as if she were on a mini-holiday. No one knew where she was except for those whom she had explicitly told, and she hadn't told many people at all: a couple of her friends from uni, Lady Sarah, and Arthur, the last of which she still felt a residual guilt for keeping it from him for so long. But not regretful. When she stayed at The Plaza, everyone seemed to know instantly that she was in town, made demands of her time, invited her to all manner of social events that she in turn felt obliged to accept.

This was lovely, quiet, peaceful. Most of all, she felt so free.

As she had done previously, she went up to her room and changed out of the trousers and blouse and into something more suitable for relaxing on the sofa; this night she decided on knit trousers which were on the casual spectrum somewhere between denim jeans and trackie bottoms, and a coordinating knit top. She then went to the bathroom to take down her hair and brush it through, fluffing it a bit with her fingers. She smiled at her reflection, titillated at the thought that Mark might like it. She knew she shouldn't encourage him (or herself for that matter), but it was innocent fun, harmless flirtation.

At least that's what she told herself. 

She went down to the lower ground level where he would very likely appear with the Thai. Taking initiative, she found a bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge and opened it. Given how she'd seen him struggle in his own kitchen, she found a wine glass with surprising ease and poured some for herself. She took it over to the sofa; with no idea when would be returning she figured a browse of the telly wouldn't go amiss.

The wine was exceptional and quickly went to her head; the programme she'd landed on—where ordinary people looked to learn whether the ugly old statue in their attic might be worth a pound or two—went from boring to positively amusing.

"What'd you find that's so funny?"

It was Mark. His sudden and seemingly silent approach caused her to gasp. 

He continued, "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay, I just didn't hear you." She looked to the television and pointed. "Look at that horrible lamp. Horrible!" She started to chuckle again. "We've got a pair of those in the library. Always hated those bloody things!"

"Oh, you found the wine, did you?"

She didn't realise she'd had quite so much, and on an empty stomach to boot. "Maybe I should eat."

"Maybe."

The pad Thai dish was delicious—just the right level of spicy; perfectly cooked rice noodles and egg; tender chicken; all topped with cilantro and a generous portion of peanut sauce—and she had more wine with it. When she finished, she leaned back, rested her head, closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm getting terribly spoilt in London."

"Are you now?" he asked as she heard him set his plate down, then felt the sofa cushions adjust as he reclined too, next to her.

"Mmm, yes," she said. "Marvellous, exotic array of food. Fantastic wine. And of course there's the wonderful, constant company and attentiveness of my host." She opened her eyes and smiled at him. "Thank you."

Her eyes held his, and he seemed to falter for words for a moment until he said at last, "It's been my pleasure." In the background the telly went on, more of the antiques appraisal programme, but she barely heard it; her pulse sounded loudly in her ears, especially as it seemed he was impossibly closer than he had been mere seconds before—

A loud knock on the glass shattered the moment; they both looked up to see a woman's face peering through the French windows. This woman looked perplexed, then angry. Mark looked a bit mortified, or at least he did for a split second before he composed his features.

"Pardon me," he said, then rose and went to the door. Bridget pushed herself to sit upright, watching attentively.

As he opened the door, Bridget heard the woman say in a low, tight voice, "Sorry, didn't mean to _interrupt_ …" She pushed at the door, revealing her thin frame clad in an immaculately tailored suit. The immediate impression Bridget got was that this woman was pushy, domineering, and selfish. 

"Please, come in," he said, making no attempt to quiet his tone or volume. "Allow me to introduce—"

"Hi," said Bridget, pushing herself to her feet. She strode over to the door with a sobriety she didn't entirely feel, and stuck her hand out. "I'm Bridget. Mark and I were just finishing dinner."

The woman lifted a brow. "Bridget," she repeated icily, taking the hand to shake with what was obviously great reluctance. "I'm Natasha. Mark and I are work colleagues."

"Ah," Bridget said. "Natasha, I'm from out of town. Staying the week. Mark is kind enough to let me stay here."

An undeniable jealousy sparked in Natasha's eyes. Bridget guessed they were more than work colleagues—but Mark had said he was unattached, so Bridget was confused… and eager for more information.

"Oh, I could tell you're from out of town," Natasha said with smug condescension; "The north, if I'm to guess."

" _Very_ good," Bridget said. "Near Oakenshaw. Have you heard of it?"

"Afraid I haven't," she said coolly.

"Natasha," Mark cut in. "What brings you by here unannounced?"

"'Unannounced'? Honestly, Mark," said Natasha, sweeping further into the room, "it's not the days of Queen Victoria. I happened to be in the area… thought I'd pop in and see if you were—" Her gaze turned pointedly towards Bridget. "—doing anything."

"As you see," Mark said, "I have a guest, and we were just about to have some dessert."

"Join us!" said Bridget, surprising even herself, but the desire to subtly poke at this woman's insecurities and sore spots was very strong. "Any friend of Mark's is a friend of mine."

Both Mark and Natasha looked equally surprised. Bridget suspected that Natasha's obviously sarcastic response of "I'd be delighted" meant that Natasha harboured an equal curiosity about her. 

Mark spoke up as he got to his feet. "I'll get dessert."

………

Mark was all happy to defer to whatever it was his guest wanted, though what Bridget could have possibly have gained by this interaction was beyond his comprehension. He was too busy being thankful for the well-timed interruption even from an unwelcome guest, for he had been on the verge of doing something incredibly ill-advised, even stupid.

He was nearly to the kitchen area when Natasha called after him, "Markee! I'll pass on dessert, thanks." He rolled his eyes despite his overt attempt to retain his composure. 

They had had no such plans for dessert, so he'd made up the fib on the spot to try to get rid of Natasha—and now he had to improvise something. He could buy a little time thinking by putting on some coffee, and as he did that he listened to the two women converse.

"So are you in human rights, too?" Bridget, genuinely curious.

"No, family law." Natasha, snooty and cool. "And what about you? What sort of work do you do?"

"Oh, I do some stuff for charity organisations. That's all."

"Oh." Natasha said this in an extremely dismissive tone, but if it bothered Bridget, she didn't show it. 

He realised something as he waited for the coffee to begin gurgling and listened to the continued banter: Natasha was doing everything possible to establish her superiority, while Bridget downplayed and even hid her wealth and status. It was an interesting contrast to witness, and was extremely eye-opening. 

At the tell-tale sound of the coffee winding down in the brew cycle, in a desperate attempt to conjure dessert, he pulled open the refrigerator then the freezer door. To his delight and relief, he found a Viennetta sitting in there as if waiting to be discovered. He pulled out a small platter and set the frozen dessert on it to let it sit as recommended, then got a couple of Wedgewood Edme coffee mugs. He recalled that she had used sugar and cream in the coffee she'd had in the morning, and hoped to duplicate the amounts to the best of his ability. He brought the two mugs back over to where they were sitting. She took hers with a smile, took a sip and said, "Oh, perfect."

He smiled smugly, then returned to the kitchen to carve into the Viennetta, then carefully replaced the rest of it back into the freezer. When he brought that back on two plates, Bridget's eyes lit up upon seeing the ice cream dessert.

"I haven't had Viennetta in ages," she said with a grin, stabbing into it with obvious delight then deliver the confection into her waiting mouth. "Mm," she said throatily; after swallowing, she added, "Just as good as I'd remembered."

"So, Mark," said Natasha, her dark eyes aglitter. "Bridget was saying that she works for a charity group. Is that how you met, at Amnesty's office?" Natasha smirked, then winked playfully to Bridget to hide the bitchiness of the comment she made next: "Brought you a coffee, or stuffed your envelopes or something?"

Mark had had enough of the veiled condescension. "You misunderstand," he said, leaning back with his own plate, taking off the corner in a deliberate fashion. "She doesn't work at a charity; she's a patron."

Natasha went slightly pale. Mark admitted that he enjoyed watching it a little too much. "How do you mean?"

"She is being very modest," said Mark, turning his gaze to Bridget, who was nonchalantly nibbling at her Viennetta. "She introduced herself simply as 'Bridget' when she, by all rights, should have done as 'Lady Thornton, Countess of Oakenshaw'." 

If Natasha had taken a coffee from which to sip, she surely would have choked on it at that statement. "Countess," Natasha repeated, though barely any sound came out. Mark knew it wouldn't take long for the backpedalling to begin, and it didn't. "I—I am so sorry. I had no idea."

"It's all right," Bridget said with a sly look to Mark, leaning back and nearly duplicating his own posture. "Kind of refreshing to fly under the radar for a bit."

There was a brief but very uncomfortable silence that was broken abruptly by Natasha. "So, with which charities do you do the most work? I've been eager to become more involved but it's been difficult to choose which are most deserving of assistance." The change in her disposition and attitude was astonishing, and underscored to Mark why ending his occasional dalliances with her had been the right thing to do.

Bridget answered between bites, prompting the occasional "Yes" and "Good point" from Natasha, all delivered with very thoughtful looks. Natasha then stood abruptly. "I had better go—I've intruded enough upon your evening." Bridget moved as if to stand, too. "No, please don't get up. I'll show myself out. Again, I do apologise for earlier, and I hope to see you again, Lady Thornton." As if an afterthought, she said to Mark, "Goodbye. I'll see you in the office."

Natasha left the same way she'd come in, though the French windows. As she disappeared from view around the corner, he was astonished to hear Bridget say, "I wish you wouldn't have done that."

"Done what?" He glanced to her and saw a look of disappointment in her eyes. 

"Blown my cover, as it were."

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I couldn't stand the thought of her continuing to look down her nose at you. Had to bring her up short. She bloody well deserved it."

She glanced to him. "I do appreciate your defence of me," she said, then added with a smirk, "and I was having fun with her in my own way. But I was also rather enjoying being a regular person holding a regular conversation and not being defined by my husband, or by the title in front of my name."

Husband. His heart actually sunk at this reminder more than anything. "I… well. I'm sorry, and I should have realised you could hold your own against her."

"Apology accepted." She leaned forward and placed her empty dish on the table, then took a long sip from the coffee. "Great way to end a night, that was."

He suspected she did not mean the visit from Natasha. "Agreed. I didn't even know it was in there." He took another bite of his Viennetta, determined to finish it before it melted into a puddle. 

"Ah. I suspected the dessert thing was a fib," she said, then looked to him over the edge of her coffee mug. "So tell me, who is Natasha really to you?"

………

Mark had never seen the question coming, and it showed on his face. He seemed to consider his words for a few moments before answering. "Ex-lover."

"Ah," she said again. It didn't surprise her, not really, though she felt compelled to ask a follow-up question: "Is Natasha _aware_ she's an ex?"

This prompted laughter. "I suppose she was acting a bit…"

"Jealous," Bridget finished. "Just a bit."

"It was all very casual," he explained. "There was no commitment, so no official breaking-up. As far as I'm concerned, it's over."

"You might want to be a bit more _overt_ ," Bridget said with a grin. "You know. Let _her_ know."

He looked very sheepish. "I know," he said, a small smile curving the corner of his lips. 

She briefly pondered why he had reacted this way—as if he had been caught red-handed in a lie—and realised what his expression and words likely meant: that he hadn't come directly out to end it because on some level, he wanted her available (in a manner of speaking) if needed. So what did it mean, then, that he was now willing to consider it 'over'? She tried not to think of the implications.

To her surprise, he went on speaking as if reading her very thoughts. "I know what you must be thinking, and I promise it's not that I've just been keeping her on the hook. It was a matter of inertia, but tonight really showed me why it's truly over."

"And why's that?" she asked.

"She didn't treat you like a human being until she thought you might be a useful connection to have," he said decisively. "I cannot abide that."

She tried to think of something profound to say in response, but instead was taken by a yawn. "Sorry," she said, chuckling a little. "It's not you, I promise."

"It has rather been a long day," he said, also chuckling. "Time to retire for the evening, I think."

They both rose; Mark reached to collect her plate and mug but she insisted on taking her own. They went over to the kitchen and loaded the plates in—filling in the last available slots—and she noted with some amusement that, after closing the door, Mark was staring at the front panel.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Thought I'd set it to running," he said, "but I haven't the faintest idea how to start the bloody thing."

"You deserve a prize for finding the thing in the first place," she said with a grin. "Well. How hard can it be?"

Mark found then put in the washing liquid, closed the door, and after some false starts, appeared to have gotten a regular wash cycle started. She felt triumphant—they both did—but she also felt even more tired than before.

"Time to turn in," she said. "I've got lunch with the girls tomorrow. My uni friends. Should be a good time."

"Don't forget the security code," he said.

She recalled that she had intended on putting it into her mobile, and as soon as she was back in the room she did so. It was then she realised she had missed a few text messages and a phone call from Arthur, but he hadn't left a message. The texts were from Jude, confirming the time and place for lunch, and Tom, another friend she'd be seeing the next day, who felt the need to be overly effusive. She smiled, feeling as if a part of her were beginning to thaw and come back to life.

She washed up went back to her room, closed the door, and undressed. On a whim, she decided to forgo the pyjamas, and instead slipped between the smooth linens with nothing on at all. She immediately loved the feel of the fabric against her skin.

She reached up and switched off the lamp. Within minutes she felt herself drifting to sleep. Oddly, her dreams, which came quickly and extremely vividly, involved herself, Mark, and the countryside near Grafton Underwood. They were dashing about gleefully through endless fields of barley under a bright blue summer sky; she could feel the tall golden fronds brushing against her legs as they passed by, the wind blowing through her hair, the sun on her skin. She couldn't tell who was chasing whom; it hardly seemed to matter. The dream left her feeling happy and peaceful, and when she awoke the next morning she felt utterly rejuvenated and refreshed, greeted by the sight of sun streaming in through the curtains.

_Time for breakfast_ , she thought as she pushed back the sheets. When she did, she realised that in the dream she, and Mark, had been completely nude running through the dream-fields, yet she'd had no awareness of it at the time. She considered what that could really mean.

………

There was not enough coffee in the world to get Mark Darcy functioning that Monday morning. He'd had a terrible time getting to sleep again, tossing and turning thinking about all manner of things; predominantly featured in these thoughts the fact that a woman to whom he was becoming increasing attracted was married.

At about six he gave up even trying and, after a quick shower and shave, he decided to go down to make some coffee and breakfast. The sun hadn't begun to rise yet, which lent the impression that it was still the middle of the night. It didn't take long, though, for dawn to break over the back garden; as he prepared some eggs and sausage links, he watched as the flowers in the garden seemed to go from monochromatic to full, beautiful colour, and he was suddenly grateful to have seen it. _There are hidden blessings in everything_ , he thought.

"Absolutely gorgeous."

He turned to see that Bridget had come down in her dressing gown, and was gazing rapturously out of the garden window, just as he had been doing. Her face looked freshly scrubbed; her hair was brushed out and loose; her hands were stuffed in her pockets.

"Sure is," he said, looking away from her and back to the pan. "I should get up with the sun more often." He pushed at the eggs and sausage. "Care for some?"

"Smells wonderful. Yes, I'd love some."

"Sure. Help yourself to coffee."

"Will do. Pour you some, shall I?"

"Yes, thanks. Black."

He stirred up the eggs some more while she poured them each some coffee. The whole scene was so comfortable, so casual, that Mark had the incredible sensation they'd been doing this for years. This sensation pervaded as they ate at the breakfast nook together, talking about their plans for the day, and arranging at long last for that dinner at her expense that evening. 

"I'm looking forward to it," said Mark, and he meant it. He glanced to the clock. "Should get ready for work." 

"Oh, right; of course you should," she said. "It's a bit yet until lunch—guess I'll shower, get ready and go out for a bit of shopping."

He started to chuckle as they cleared their plates away to the sink. "Did you forget I had to go to work?"

"Shut up," she said, though she too was smiling.

As he prepared for work, he could not help thinking of her in the shower, thoughts that he was not proud to have. He realised that he could hear, even from his own bedroom, the water running in the guest shower, and he wondered with a growing sense of horror that she might have just as easily heard sounds from below. 

He couldn't dwell on the possibility.

He descended to the ground floor, and was in the office, just making sure his attaché was fully packed with all he'd need for the day, when the bell went off, signalling a visitor at the front door. Furrowing his brows, he brought the attaché with him, dropped it on a chair in the foyer, then tried to make out the figure through the glass of the window. It seemed to be a woman. _Perhaps one of Bridget's friends_ , he thought, so he asked, "Yes? Who is it?"

"Mr Darcy? It's Lady Sarah. I was looking for Lady Thornton."

He pulled open the door and invited her inside. The first thing he noticed, aside from a somewhat strange and inappropriate pillbox hat, was that she had much less hair than she'd had at the dinner party. He supposed the chin-length bob suited her well enough, but the sudden change took him aback. "Bridget's upstairs showering," he said, then amended, "Dressing. Lady Thornton is."

He watched as a brow lifted very subtly. "Is she? Do you expect she'll be down soon?"

"I couldn't venture to say," Mark said coolly. 

"I would have called, you see, but my mobile's gone on walkabout," Lady Sarah went on. "We have a little bit of an emergency for Friday night. Oh. You are coming, I hope?"

"Yes, I'd be happy to."

"Mark? Was that someone at the door?" called a voice from above. 

"Yes," he called back.

"Dammit, I told the minicab company half-nine," she said, fixing an earring as she came down in a rush. He sensed it was not the time to remind Bridget he would have dropped her somewhere. She then saw it was not her minicab and said, smoothing her hair back into its twist, "Oh! Hello! What brings you here?"

"Bridget," Lady Sarah said. "We've got a bit of a crisis. The supplier for wine on Friday night has double-booked, and we won't be able to get what we need."

"Oh, that will just not do," said Bridget. "I have a prior lunch engagement but I can set aside my shopping plans to brainstorm with you over a coffee."

"Yes, let's!" she said. "Ring up the minicab company and cancel. You can ride with me." At that moment a shrill trilling echoed through the foyer, emanating from Lady Sarah's handbag. She had the good grace to look chagrined before saying, "I could have sworn I didn't see it in there! One moment, if you please. This may be another distributor."

She stepped aside to answer. Mark turned his gaze to Bridget and offered a smile. He had gotten so used to seeing her with her hair down and in casual clothing that the sight of her all dressed in a designer skirt and jacket, her hair swept up and her makeup perfect, was a bit of a surprise. "I've got to get to Inns of Court," he said. "Lock up after yourself. And don't forget—"

"To set the security system, right," she said. "I'll see you later for dinner."

"I'll see you then," he said, then reached for his attaché and left the house.


	4. Chapter 4

She had to admit: it was one hell of a gown, and she felt like a knockout in it: long, draping smoky sapphire silk, a modest v-shaped neckline but a lower back than her usual gowns, and a subtle though daring slit high up the left side. She'd only found it the day before, shopping just off of Regent Street at the Carolina Herrera store, and it went perfectly with the black Jimmy Choo shoes she'd brought with her from Oakenshaw.

 _Plus_ , she thought, lifting her chin as she turned before the mirror in her room, _it makes me look taller._

"Bridget? Are you ready?"

Mark's voice calling up from the ground floor broke her from her reverie. Makeup and hair were already done, so aside from the earrings and bracelet, she was indeed ready to go. She realised that clasping the bracelet for her was something Arthur had always done—and that made her guiltily realise she hadn't thought of her husband in days.

"I'll be right down," she called. She draped her wrap over her forearm, picked up her clutch and bracelet, and headed for the stairs. 

As she descended, she had to pay closer attention to the stairs then she did at home, so it was not until she reached the bottom that she looked up for a reaction. The expression on Mark's face revealed very little, so she asked, "What do you think?"

"Stunning," he said. "You look utterly stunning."

"Thanks." She felt a blush stain her cheeks. Taking in his lean, tuxedo-clad form, she said with a grin, "Don't look so bad yourself."

He seemed to pull himself with great effort from his thoughts to say, "We should… we ought to go. The minicab is here."

"Oh, terrific," she said, then moved to slip the velvet wrap on, but he stepped forward to assist, and as she turned he placed it upon her shoulders.

"What's in your hand?" he asked as he did the clasp at her throat for her.

"A bracelet I wanted to wear," she said. "I can never put them on myself. Maybe you can do it in the cab."

"I'll try, though I don't exactly have nimble fingers."

She mused that his fingers seemed more slender than Arthur's, but decided to keep that bit of info to herself. "I'm sure it'll be fine," she said. 

As the cab slunk through the streets of London—not a long distance to drive, but there was always traffic, and finding place to park was a big concern for an event such as this one—she held her right hand out to him. He took it by the wrist, then tried to simultaneously hold the bracelet down and work the clasp, but it kept slipping from his grasp.

"I'm sorry," he said, holding her around the wrist again; the pads of his fingers against her skin proved quite distracting. "Not sure I can do this in a moving vehicle in such low light. I can try again once we're inside."

"It's all right." She took the bracelet back and slipped it into her clutch. "I'm not required to wear a bracelet."

When the cab stopped signalling their arrival, he got out then went around to help her to her feet, then, as the gentleman he was, offered his elbow to her to escort her in. With a smile she slipped her arm through his and together they went into the hotel, then directly into the lift to take them to the ballroom where the fashion show was to be held. There had been several last-minute wrinkles—the alcohol fiasco amongst them—but between Lady Sarah and herself, they had gotten everything all smoothed out.

The ballroom was decked out in shimmering silver everywhere, and the room was lit with shades of cobalt, amethyst, and white. The air was filled with the buzz of conversation. They were only a little late but many of the guests had already arrived.

"This is really impressive," said Mark as he looked around. "You should be very proud."

She grinned demurely. "I can't take all of the credit."

Despite the heels she wore, he was still taller than she was. He leaned close so that she could hear; the faint scent of his cologne invaded her senses. "Okay, then fifty per cent of it."

She chuckled, then turned her face up in order for him to hear her. "I should find Lady Sarah and let her know that I'm here. I imagine the show itself is going to start soon and she insisted on being stage manager. Just as well—I have no experience with that."

"Shall I get you a glass of wine?" he said.

She placed her hand on his forearm. "If you would, I'd appreciate it."

With that, she went towards the stage area to find her cohort, and as expected, Lady Sarah was there, grasping the shoulder and speaking very closely into the ear of someone she had not expected to see that night.

"Arthur?" she asked abruptly.

He turned at the sound of his name, and he smiled brightly as his eyes lit upon her. "Love," he said, holding out his hand for hers. "You look… gorgeous."

"Hi," she said, accepting it and then embracing him. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"He wanted it to be a surprise," cut in Lady Sarah, who had, as usual, taken to wearing her long false ponytail with a garish hat upon her head.

"I decided to come back early from Copenhagen," he said.

"Colour me surprised," she said, looking from her husband to Lady Sarah and back again. What had they been doing prior to her arrival? "Are you helping out, Arthur?"

"What?"

"I asked, are you helping out? What were you talking about?"

"I did ask him for an opinion on which dress should go out first," offered Lady Sarah, but Arthur talked over her.

"Nothing in particular," he said. "It's just so hard to hear in here."

"Did you bring your friend?" Lady Sarah asked.

 _No, not now_ , she thought, _don't ask me about Mark right now_. She opted to pretend she hadn't quite heard, and was about to speak when Lady Sarah spoke again.

"Ah, here he is now!"

………

Watching Bridget walk away to find Lady Sarah was, for Mark, an exercise in self-control; the way the silk dress hung from her curves, the way it moved as she walked, the very way she walked in those heels, reminded him of how her appearance from upstairs had nearly rocked him back on his arse earlier that evening. It was due to far more than the dress, though the revealing slit in the blue-black silk revealing more thigh than expected caused him to stare longer than was polite. Her blonde hair was pulled up as was her habit, only this time wasn't quite so polished as usual; a few tendrils brushed down against her neck and cheeks. Instead of the pale pink lipstick, she had gone for something darker and redder, and the eye shadow was a similarly dark blue with black liner at the base of her upper lashes. She also had worn a pair modest diamond earrings and a matching necklace, though he had barely taken note of them for how ravishing she'd otherwise looked.

He unsuccessfully tried to push the image from his head as he turned to find the bar. He ordered not wine but a couple of flutes of champagne— _Why not splash out a little?_ he thought—then turned to follow the path she'd taken.

Only to find her engaged in conversation with her husband.

Too late he was spotted by Lady Sarah, who waved him closer. He approached the group. Arthur looked angry enough to spit nails.

"You're here with my wife, are you?"

"Yes," he said plainly. "She asked me since she thought you were in Denmark. I was all too happy to escort her."

"It was Lady Sarah's idea, actually," said Bridget in a cross tone. It was then that Mark noticed that Lady Sarah's hair had, bizarrely enough, appeared to have regenerated; she wore a long ponytail as she had the night of the dinner party. As he considered this, Bridget took one of the flutes. "Thanks." She had a long sip.

"Mark," said Arthur gruffly, "I thought you were a friend."

"I _am_ a friend," he said. "To you _and_ to Bridget. Nothing more."

"Arthur," said Bridget, "you're blowing this _way_ the fuck out of proportion. Pot calling kettle black, I'd say, given I just saw you and Lady Sarah in a very intimate-looking tête-à-tête. Practically had her tongue in your ear!"

This language from Bridget surprised him about as much as what she said she'd witnessed prior to his arrival. Lady Sarah looked mortified. Arthur turned even redder in his fury.

"I think you and I need to have a private conversation," said Arthur.

"After the show? Fine," she said. "In the meantime, I am taking a seat to watch, and I am bringing my guest with me. Mark, come on." She roughly took his elbow again. "It's going to begin."

He found himself being led away to her table. They both sat, and he leaned to ask, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she said in a tight voice; she could not hide the tears welling in her eyes. "Have some prawn cocktail."

The show started; he sipped at his drink and took a prawn, but within minutes of the show beginning she leaned in close to him and said, "Sorry. I have to leave." Before he could ask what was wrong, she was up from the table and gone.

Mark could not let her walk away in that state let alone abandon the event, so he got up and followed her. He didn't need to go far. She stood waiting for the lift, pressing her hand to her face.

"Bridget," he said. She turned to face him, wiping away dampness from her cheeks. "You can't leave."

"I can't stay like this."

"Why not?"

She said in a low hiss, "He _thinks_ I've been sleeping with you."

Mark blinked in his surprise. "Well, you haven't. You've done nothing wrong at all."

"That's why I'm so upset," she said. "That he could think I would betray him…"

"Bridget."

It was Arthur. No longer was he angry; rather, he looked remorseful.

She sniffed, standing up straight. "I said _after_."

"I think we should talk now," he said gently. Arthur then looked at Mark. "Allow me to apologise for my behaviour earlier."

"Accepted," he said, then to her: "Bridget, go on."

She turned and looked to Mark.

"If anyone asks for you, I'll tell them you're handling fashion show business," he said; she smiled. "Go on. This is important."

She nodded. "Okay."

………

Arthur had taken a suite in the hotel in which the event was being held, so she followed him into the lift that would take them straight up to the penthouse.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said softly as it whirred upwards. "I'd heard things from Lady Sarah and I'm afraid I got a little worked up…"

"I know," she said, though it didn't surprise her that Lady Sarah had fostered his insecure thoughts. "I'm sorry, too." She paused to look at her husband, to really study him, and saw him looking not just tired and sad, but maybe even a little guilty. She thought back to the scene she'd encountered, and the penny dropped. It was as good a segue into the discussion they needed to have as anything. "Arthur…" she began tentatively, "about earlier. Are you attracted to Lady Sarah?"

He looked to her as if in shock. "No! Of course not!"

The vehemence of his rebuttal spoke volumes. "You don't have to deny it," Bridget continued calmly. "You've known her a really long time; I'd understand if you did. I mean, it's _okay_ to be attracted to someone. So if you are—"

"I'd never act on it," he said abruptly, then looked to her; she was shocked to hear the admission, but even more so, she felt relieved. "I love you, but I've _always_ been attracted to her, but she was married, then I was married…" He drifted off. "Sorry."

"It's all right. I know what you mean." After a long moment, she continued. "I love you too," she said quietly, then added, "but I'm attracted to Mark."

Neither spoke again until they were within the suite, with the door closed and latched; they sat upon the foot of the bed like a couple of shy newlyweds. He reached over, took then clasped her hand.

Arthur spoke up first. "That relieves me, actually, if you can believe it."

She chuckled as an additional release. "I can believe it."

"So that's what changed," he said. "Mark in your life again."

"No. At least I don't think so. It might have been anyone," she said, even if she didn't quite believe it was true. "Being in London had more to do with it than anything. I felt like I was coming alive again, waking up like a sort of Rip Van Winkle." She sighed. "I don't know if that makes any sense to you."

"It does." He squeezed her hand, then let it go, slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. She rested her head on him.

"I'd thought about leaving before, but I didn't," she began unsurely, "because it would have seemed like having children was more important to me than you are."

"Funny you should say that," he said. "I felt the same way."

"You wanted to leave?"

"No, no, I thought that you felt obliged to stay because you might feel like you were otherwise abandoning me." He let out a long breath. 

She summoned a confidence and bravery that she did not fully feel and then said, "Discovering that I can be attracted to someone else… and that I might even be attractive to him in return…. Arthur, I can't live the rest of my life in a sort of stasis, existing only to not cause you pain. And if that hurts you, I'm sorry. But I think the next step is clear."

He was very quiet a long time, then sighed again. "Yes," he said. "You've actually summed up how I've been feeling, but I didn't want to hurt _you_."

She found the tears were flowing again, though this time at the utter emotional release; if only they had talked sooner, they might never have gotten to a state of emotional deadness. She turned and gave him a quick, chaste kiss, then drew away, her hand lingering on his cheek. "Shall we speak to counsel on Monday?"

"Yes," he said. "I think that's a grand idea."

Bridget rose from the bed, feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her. He stood too, and they turned and embraced each other for a long few moments.

"Thank you," she said quietly, "for being such a good man."

He made a dismissive sound. "No better a man than you are a woman, love," he said. He placed a kiss on her cheek. "Are you up for going back downstairs?"

She nodded. "Let me use the en suite to touch up the makeup. I'm sure it's a disaster."

"It's not so bad, really," he said, "but I'll have a drink while you do it."

He had been far too kind about the state of her makeup; her eye shadow and mascara had formed panda circles around her eyes. A little soap and water (and the careful daubing of a towel) took it away, and within minutes she had reapplied the shadow and mascara to look good as new.

She came out to see him tipping up a tumbler to finish. "I see you're done," she said.

"As are you." He set down the empty glass. "You look terrific. Come on, let's go mingle."

As they rode the lift down, she said in a confidential tone, "You know, if Lady Sarah hurts you, I'll stuff that fake ponytail of hers down her throat."

This made him burst out with laughter. "I have every intention of burning those bloody things at the soonest," he said. "Don't know who she thinks she's fooling." As his laughter tapered, he smiled. "You know, I'd forgotten how funny you can be."

"Oh, thanks a lot," she teased, then slipped her arm through his elbow, just as she had done earlier, as the lift doors parted. They strode out and turned the corner; she caught a glimpse of their reflection in a mirror, and was struck by how equally happy they each looked. Those smiles stayed firmly in place as they went back into the ballroom.

 _Funny what a positive resolution will do to a person_ , she thought as she looked for Mark to share her news. _Win-win._

………

Mark probably ought not to have had as much champagne as he had while he waited to see what the result of the conversation—or more likely, row—was. He should have remained perfectly stoic and sober so that when she returned, he would be able to console her, listen to her, help her work through whatever they might have talked about.

He had returned to the ballroom as the staff frowned upon drinking outside of it, though he stayed near to the door through the entirety of the show. After the conclusion, after mixing and mingling had begun again, was when he spotted her; due to the throngs of people around, however, her view of him was obscured.

He was not prepared for what he saw. Not prepared at all to see them looking very happy and relaxed, all tension gone, all ease and nonchalance. They looked for all the world like they'd resolved their differences… then had had a quickie.

It was ridiculous for him to feel hurt; they were married, after all, and while he'd thought there had been reciprocal attraction, maybe it had all been in his head. He had been a friend to her, but she owed him nothing.

Bridget saw him then; he hadn't thought it possible, but her smile broadened, which confused him. She released her husband's elbow then made her way towards him.

"Hello," he said neutrally. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's great," she said. "We talked and it's all sorted." She leaned closer; her sweet and spicy perfume tortured him. "You mustn't say a word, but on Monday we're starting divorce proceedings."

He froze, blinked stupidly, looked at her in shock. Surely he had misheard. Surely she wouldn't be this thrilled about a divorce. "Pardon?" he managed at last.

"You poor thing," she said with a laugh. "Look like you're going to faint." She took his elbow again. "You heard correctly. We both wanted to end it but neither of us wanted to hurt each other. So now we've got it out in the open, there's nothing to it but to make it happen."

"Oh," he said, then he smiled at his own relief. "Sorry. Not used to divorce being good news. Well. If you're happy, then I'm happy for you."

"Thanks." She squeezed his forearm gently; he loved seeing her so happy. "So how was the show?"

"No bloody idea," he confessed. "I didn't watch a moment of it."

"Sorry."

"No need to be sorry," said Mark, holding her gaze with his own. "Not at all."

"Bridget. I really need to speak to you."

They both turned to see a very distraught-looking Lady Sarah. "Hi," Bridget said.

Lady Sarah looked to Mark, then back to Bridget. "In private?"

"Of course." She relinquished Mark's arm. "I'll be right back."

He watched her walk away, the fabric of the dress swinging to and fro again, and all he could think was how much he wanted to tell her how he felt about her, except for two things: she did not need him declaring himself like some sort of Victorian suitor when she had only just decided on divorce, and… he didn't really know how he felt, not deep down. There was an undeniable spark; he liked her very much; and to be sure, he was fervently attracted to her. Certainly there was room for more, but he was in no position to make guarantees. He was equally certain she could make none, either.

At about the ten minute mark—he knew this because he kept glancing at his wristwatch—she reappeared suddenly beside him in the midst of the still-dense crowd.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"I'll tell you on the way back to your house." She grinned, and added before he could ask, "I'm not going to stay with Arthur. Would be too weird to share a bed with a man I've just agreed to divorce."

"Is he—" Mark stopped from wondering if Arthur was okay with that, because it didn't matter to her what Arthur thought, although he was just as happy that she wasn't spending the night with him. "I suppose you're right."

Once in the taxi on the way home, she dropped the second bombshell of the evening. "Lady Sarah wanted to make sure our friendship wasn't damaged."

"There was a friendship to damage?" he joked. "Is she upset with you for divorcing her old friend?"

"Oh, no," she said. "Guess I didn't tell you that part. Arthur told me he has been interested in Lady Sarah for a pretty long time, and he's going to, shall we say, go for it. She wanted to make sure we could still be friends." She laughed. "Or at least friendly."

"Arthur… and Lady Sarah?" he asked. "Can't believe it."

"It's true."

He blamed his shock on what he said next: "How can he stand the smell?"

She began laughing so hard tears came down her face. Between his embarrassed apologies, she said, "No, no, I haven't laughed this hard in eons." She sniffed a few times, then offered a winning grin. "I guess maybe he got hit in the head one too many times with a football." His laughter matched her own. "Honestly, I don't know. I'm the one who smokes and _I_ can't take it."

Before long they arrived to Mark's house; once in the door she wasted no time taking off the wrap, and he rather unabashedly looked at her in the brighter light in the foyer. "Care for some decaf to wind down?" he asked.

She grinned. "Sure. And some more of that Viennetta." She made a show of looking down at herself. "I think I had better put something better suited for coffee on the sofa."

………

Bridget ascended the stairs, fully aware that his gaze followed her as long as he could see her. She felt a bit giddy, to be honest; not that she was ready to jump into bed with the man, but she rather liked openly flirting and encouraging him to flirt back. It boosted her ego and confidence a million-fold.

She slipped out of the dress—a pity, she thought, as he rather obviously liked it—and most of the accompanying undergarments, then put on a pair of snug knit trousers she'd brought intending on doing some yoga, as well as a moderately tight jumper. _Yoga_ , she thought with a chuckle as she pulled them to her hips. _Haven't done yoga in ages. Had my subconscious really had something more in mind all along?_

She went into the bathroom to unpin her hair and brush it out, then, after a moment's thought, decided to keep the smoky makeup intact. With an impish smile, she headed back down the stairs in stocking feet to the lower ground floor, where the tantalising smell of fresh brewed coffee greeted her…

But Mark did not.

She looked around, wondering if she might have somehow managed to pass him on her way down, or perhaps that he was on a chair or the sofa and she just didn't see him, but no; she was alone down there. Her gaze was drawn out the windows, to the foliage and sky beyond; if she didn't know better she would have thought she was in the suburbs, as there was no evidence to be seen of London from that perspective.

"Sometimes I forget I'm in the city."

As dark as it was outside, she could see his reflection in the glass as he stood behind her, could tell that he, too, had changed out of formal attire and into something more causal; the lines of his clothing were no longer of a tuxedo. She turned and found he was wearing dark khaki trousers and a cream-coloured jumper; his hair had gotten rumpled in pulling it over his head and he hadn't noticed. It was really rather adorable.

"Definitely a bonus that you are, though." Otherwise, it would have been The Plaza all over again: no revelations about what she wanted for her future; no mutually agreed-upon plan to divorce her husband… and no overt flirting to look forward to.

"Coffee should be ready," he said. "I'll take out the Viennetta for slicing."

"I'll pour yours," she said, reaching up and getting two of the Wedgewood mugs down in a fluid manoeuvre that suggested she'd been doing it a lot longer than a week. She chuckled. "Such glamour. Charity fashion show to coffee in yoga bottoms."

From behind her, the clatter of cutlery rang out as it hit the floor; she turned to see that he was crouching down to retrieve an errant fork. He looked a bit embarrassed. "Sorry."

"No need," she said. "If I apologised every time I dropped something, I'd never stop talking."

Mark chuckled at this, looking distinctly more at ease. 

After a quick carve and serve of the dessert, he carried the plates, she carried the coffee, and together they went to the sofa. They sat facing each other; she reclined with the arm at her back and her feet stretched out before her, while he did the same from the opposite side, his legs to the right of hers and crossed at the ankles.

"So," he asked as she reached towards the table for her dessert, "what do you plan to do now?"

"Eat this Viennetta," she said, plunging her fork into the dessert.

He laughed sharply. "I mean… in a broader sense. After you get the divorce going. After you're no longer living in Oakenshaw."

"Oh," she said; she hadn't been wilfully oblivious but she really should have guessed he meant beyond the weekend. "Hadn't really thought about it. Though I expect I'll come to London. I feel like I belong here. Being here only reinforces that."

She caught a little smirk play on the corner of his mouth as he too cut into the Viennetta. "Good." He glanced up to her. "I was hoping you'd say that." He took the dessert into his mouth but did not look away until he spoke again. "This may be a bit presumptuous and extremely early in the game to mention it, but if you are ever in need to a place to stay until you have your own flat, house, whatever… you're welcome here, always."

"Thanks," she said. "Flat, I think. Rather than house. I want to live somewhere a bit cosier than Oakenshaw."

" _This_ house is cosy compared to that one," he joked. "I think only a palace would be less cosy."

This got her to laughing again, and with that, their rolling conversation continued, during which she did a lot of smiling and laughing. It was only after all of the rest of the Viennetta and the coffee was gone that she yawned unexpectedly and thought to check the time.

It was half two. In the morning.

"Oh, crikey," she said, leaning over to set the coffee cup down on the table. "I completely lost track."

"So did I," Mark said, then gave her another little smile. "I enjoyed every moment of talking with you."

She smiled in return; the smile was enough, she thought, to let him know she felt the same. 

He stood, stretching a little as he yawned. "We can leave the plates for morning. Now? To sleep, perchance to dream."

They climbed at a sluggish, sleepy pace upwards. Before they reached the first floor, from behind her, Mark cleared his throat. "You know," he said. "I… well. I'm not trying to be opportunistic, and I certainly have no expectations, but… I just wanted to be upfront about it. You know. To let you know."

She reached the landing and turned to face him, her chin lifting as she watched him continue to ascend until he got to the last step. It was actually really rather funny to hear him be so inarticulate. "Let me know what?" she asked.

"That I…" His skin flushed a light pink. "Well. I thought it was obvious."

"It isn't," she said, though she suspected she knew, given what she had overheard coming from his room that night. 

His gaze somehow became even more intense. "I'm deeply attracted to you, and… well. I did say 'no expectations'."

She smiled, then placed her hands on his upper arms, lifted herself up on the balls of her feet, and placed a lingering kiss on his cheek before lowering herself to step away towards the staircase. "You can have _some_ expectations, Mark," she said. "Sleep well."

"Sweet dreams," he said in return.

She then continued up the stairs, not daring to look back, because she knew if she did, it might be her undoing. She still felt the warmth of his body on her hands where she'd grasped him, still felt the zing on her lips where they had touched his cheek. It was going to be a long wait until she felt like she could sleep with him; although she and Arthur had verbally agreed and things were over but for the formalities, she didn't think she would feel comfortable actually jumping into something new so quickly.

She at least felt more free to think about the possibilities. About exactly what was hiding beneath the suits he usually wore, how he might direct the passion he felt in her personal life, and if the passion he showed for his work was any indicator of what he was capable of in bed…

She sighed. Why was she torturing herself so much in this way?

………

Mark had never needed his ability for restraint, for control, as much as he had that night. Every nerve ending in his body was burning fire from the chaste peck she had delivered unexpectedly to his cheek, and so badly he'd wanted to reach for her, take her by the wrist, pull her to him and kiss her ardently enough to make her knees go weak. As he undressed, his thoughts drifted to continuing the fantasy: scooping her up into his arms, taking her to his bed…

 _Madness_ , he thought. _Stop this madness before you can't._

For his own good he went directly to the shower, turned it on with the water temperature as cold as he could stand it, then stepped under the flow. He gasped at the shock of it, but it had the intended effect. After just a few minutes he was able to shut it off again, then slipped into his bed to sleep.

Taking the shower would prove pointless. Within moments he could hear something, a faint sound almost like a whimper, emanating down from above. He realised very quickly, given it began to be punctuated with groans and almost fully formed words, that it was Bridget he was hearing.

He couldn't stop himself, not from the image that burst into his mind of her lying in the bed above doing all manner of things to herself that he wished he was doing, and certainly not stop from joining in to achieve his own peace. With every moan he heard, his own movements quickened, though he bit on his lip to keep himself from calling out. At her final, guttural cry, he bit down so hard nearly drew his own blood. Within a matter of moments he climaxed.

 _Don't know how long I can take this_ , he thought as he gasped for air, his lids heavy with exhaustion and the late hour. It seemed he had only closed them, had only just gone to sleep, when he opened them again to find the sun filling the room. He turned to the side, straining to look at the clock. It proclaimed that it was nearly ten in the morning. While not late, it was later than he usually rose… though admittedly he had been up rather later than he usually retired.

Without Cassie coming in, his thoughts, oddly enough, went to tasks of a mundane nature; shopping for groceries and laundry were at the top of the list. It would very likely serve to distract him from that which he had been thinking about far too much.

Rather, whom.

He showered, shaved, and otherwise prepared for his day, only considering how difficult it might be to meet her eye once he was leaving the room given what he had overheard. However, once in the kitchen, once he saw her gazing through the back windows with coffee in hand, all potential awkwardness disappeared.

"Morning," he said.

She turned with a smile. "Hi," she said; she looked gorgeous in a short, soft-looking grey dress and matching tights; the outfit was completed with knee-high black boots. "Morning. I made coffee, and it doesn't taste like utter crap."

He couldn't help laughing a little. "A ringing endorsement," he said. "Thank you."

She gestured back towards the kitchen. "I also cleared out the dishwasher and loaded it again."

"You didn't need to do that," he said.

"I got up early," she explained, "and was feeling a little restless."

It was then he saw the looked a bit tired. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she said. "You know how it is when your mind starts turning circles thinking of all what you have to do. Logically you know it's going to be okay, but you can't get it to shut up anyway."

"Ah, yes," he said; it was something with which he was all too familiar. "Well, my plans involve house upkeep, so you are free to have a lie-down or do whatever it is you need to do."

"Oh?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

"A little shopping," he said. "Of the grocery sort. And some laundry. The housekeeper usually takes care of that sort of thing, and she's—"

"Hurt, yes," Bridget cut in. "Is there anything I can do to help? Feeling a bit on edge, and need to work off a bit of that nervous energy."

His thoughts quickly went to a place he wished they hadn't, involving ways to help work off said energy, but he simply smiled. "If you really want to—it'd be nice to have the company."

"Yes, I really want to," she said. "Plus, you know, I ought to familiarise myself again with routines like shopping again, and laundry, and… oh God, that sounds terribly posh, doesn't it?"

"You've been living a rather posh life," he said, "and I don't mean that as an insult."

"I know you don't." She pulled one corner of her mouth into a rueful half smile. "Besides, you're totally right. Ugh." Now she frowned. "Who's going to want to give a job to someone who has a nearly decade gap on her CV?"

"One of your copious connections, no doubt," he said with a grin. "Don't fret. I'm also sure Arthur will not leave you hanging, especially when this is mutually agreed upon."

She smiled a little. "I suppose you're right," she said. "I think he does still love me in a 'we're family' sort of way."

 _Just not in love_ , he thought. He was okay with that.

After a quick breakfast of coffee and yoghurt with muesli mixed in (and making a shopping list as he did, including both yoghurt and muesli), they gathered up their things and went out the door.

She started to chuckle when he used his satnav to map out the route to the nearest Tesco. "You… don't know how to get to Tesco?"

He pursed his lips. "Cassie usually does the shopping. It's not where I usually go to pick up a bottle of wine now and again."

She continued to laugh, and continued to tease him as they wound their way down the aisles. "When was the last time _you_ were in a Tesco?" he countered.

"Touché," she said. "But they rarely change, and I at least can say I have been."

"I have," he said, though was less than confident, and added, "I think."

This set her off into gales of laughter again.

As they drove back to the house with quite the full boot, Bridget's mobile went off. It was Arthur, and from her side of the conversation, he was able to infer that an appointment was arranged to consult with a lawyer. However, he had no guesses as to the nature of the question that made Bridget blush like mad, one to which she answered in the affirmative: "Yes, that is quite all right by me." This was quickly followed by, "No, I haven't, but I appreciate knowing it's okay," as she glanced to Mark. "I'll see you on Monday morning. Bye."

She disconnected; the stain of her blush reddened her cheeks still.

"Arthur?" he asked casually.

"Yes."

"What was that about?"

"Oh, God," she said, flushing anew. "He wanted to know, since we're only going to be in London through Monday… if Lady Sarah could stay with him. If that was okay by me."

"Ah." He wondered what the other part of her answer was about; he was not going to press it gauging by her colour, but he had a good idea, and he felt the heat of his own embarrassment flare up around his collar.

"I'd like to make dinner," she said suddenly, looking over to him. 

"Oh," he said. "Yes, sure. Though you hardly need to."

"I insist. As a thank you. And I have a gift for you, too."

He idly wondered what she might have gotten for him, and said, "Well, thank you, though that wasn't necessary. It's been a pleasure having you around." He glanced back to her, and smiled warmly. He looked forward to seeing what she might prepare for them.


	5. Chapter 5

_Spag bol_ , she thought with a grin. The dish had been her masterpiece whilst in uni, and she had perfected it at the elbow of an Italian cook they'd had for a time at Oakenshaw. She had ensured that all of the ingredients were purchased during the shopping trip, and she very much looked forward to making it for Mark.

"Do you need any help at all?"

"Nope," she said. "Unless you'd like to pick out some wine. Red, I think."

His brows lifted; he knew she preferred white. "Okay, then."

"For us, and for the recipe," she amended. "Need two large glasses for it."

It took her a few minutes to find the pot and the pan, but once she had, she started to cook in earnest. _Funny to think of such a domestic task as liberating_ , she thought with a wide grin playing upon her lips, but it was true. She hadn't forgotten a thing about making the dish, and before long the lower ground level was thoroughly permeated with the scent of the bacon and the beef, the tomatoes, onions, and garlic.

He came up behind her; she could sense his presence before he spoke. "That looks and smells fantastic. My mouth's watering."

She chuckled. "Won't be long now," she said. "Pasta's nearly done." She stirred the sauce, chuckling a little. "You know, if I hadn't had a teacher in the form of one of our cooks in Oakenshaw, I probably would have been a crap cook."

"Watching you cook, I can scarcely believe it."

"It's true," she said. "My gran was a domestic science teacher, and my mum can do a pavlova in her sleep. I never had the talent—and I assure you, my talents in the kitchen are of a very narrow spectrum, as I've said. You saw how proud I was making coffee that was actually drinkable."

He chuckled too. "Point is taken. I must admit I haven't had much opportunity to cook for myself."

"Maybe I could teach you a few things," she said, then lifted the spoon that had been in the sauce and turned towards him, offering it to him. "How's this?"

He opened his mouth for a taste. "Oh," he said, licking the corner of his mouth where some of the tomato sauce had smudged. "Quite good. Quite good indeed."

She forced herself back on task, forced herself to not think about his mouth and tongue, and turned back to the hob. "Great. Will just drain the pasta and we're set."

"I've already poured the wine and set the table."

She turned to see he had done so, in fact, and had lit a couple of candles. "Very nice," she said, looking to him with a sidelong glance.

"Well, you know, it's dark, and there's an ambiance to uphold when it comes to _spaghetti alla Bolognese_."

She grinned. "Mister Fancy."

He shrugged a little, grinning sheepishly. "What can I say?" he asked.

"I say, let's eat," she said, turning to serve up the pasta.

She had to admit that she had outdone herself; the sauce was perfect, the meat was tender and flavourful, and the pasta had just the right bite. Mark looked like he was in gustatory heaven. She was very proud of herself and her efforts.

When they finished, to her surprise, he reached over and across the table to take her hand, cradling it gently in his own. The warmth was delicious; the electricity snaking up her arm, tangible. "Thank you," he said, meeting her gaze and holding it with equal warmth and electricity. "That was simply sublime."

"You're most welcome," she said, her voice quiet. "It was my pleasure."

"I can tell," he said with a small smile. "You really looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"Yes," she said.

He looked down again, lifted her hand and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles. Her response was an audible sigh. His eyes flicked up again to look at her before his lids closed.

"And you haven't even had dessert yet," she said in that same quiet voice.

At this she heard him make a low sound in his throat, then rise to his feet, her hand still in his, then tugged her to stand up. She realised, as he slowly snaked one arm about her waist, brushed the other hand over her cheek then comb her hair back, that in hinting towards the gelato she'd chosen in continuing the Italian theme had been totally misconstrued.

As his lips pressed to hers, she hardly cared. She had spent a week—no, it occurred to her it had been months, since that dinner party at her own home—wondering what it might be like to kiss him, and her expectations were met and surpassed. His lips were eager though tentative, and did not explore further until invited, when she parted her own. As she did, as he completely dominated her, she moaned and leaned into him, bringing her arms up and around his neck, raking her fingers through his hair, causing him to make that sound again, low and guttural, in his throat.

As the kiss broke apart, as she sucked in a great breath of air and pressed her cheek to his, she sighed and laughed lightly. "I meant the gelato," she said, "but I'm not complaining."

"Bridget," he said, almost sighed, as he brushed his lips over her earlobe, pressed kisses against the pulse in her throat. She swallowed hard then sighed too. She could not deny she wanted him, and felt no further restriction with her soon-to-be-ex-husband's full consent and permission… however—

"Is that… the door?" she said, suddenly hearing a pounding, confirmed by the loud ring of the doorbell again.

He drew away, cursed under his breath, then brought his hands up to cup her face. "I had better see who that is."

"Okay," she said, reaching up to caress his own face. 

He smiled. "I'm only grateful they didn't come to the French windows."

She laughed, leaned forward, and pecked his lips. "I'll serve up gelato."

He nodded. "Vanilla. I'll get rid of whomever that is."

She went to the cupboard for a pair of bowls while he scaled the stairs. At the sound of the door opening, she heard a loud, male voice: "What took you so long? The match is already underway!"

"Oh, Christ, Daniel," she heard Mark say. "I totally forgot to call and cancel. I have a… guest."

Silence. "A guest. Oh. A _female_ guest?" he said with amusement in his voice. "Must see this."

Then she heard footsteps across the floor upstairs, then down the staircase. This intruder, Daniel, was almost Mark's height, with close-cropped, medium brown hair, sparkling blue eyes, and one of the most lascivious grins she had ever seen. "Helllllo," he said in an exaggerated fashion. "I don't believe we've been introduced." He extended his hand. "I'm Daniel Cleaver. One of Mark's oldest friends from Cambridge."

She accepted it and smiled politely. "Bridget," she said.

"Lady Thornton," Mark corrected. "Countess of Oakenshaw."

Daniel couldn't stop the look of surprise that crossed his features, raised brows and a look directed at his old friend. "Well, Mark," he said. "I can see clearly now that it's Lady Thornton's lipstick on your face. Perfect match."

Without thinking Mark raised his hand and wiped around his mouth. "Thank you, Sherlock," he said drolly. "As you can see we're about to have dessert. Alone."

"Dessert. Right. Well, it was very nice to meet you, Lady Thornton."

She smiled again. She didn't want to be rude, but she did want the man to leave as soon as possible. "It's nice to meet you too, Mr Cleaver."

"Please," he said. "Call me Daniel."

"Goodbye, Daniel," Mark said curtly.

"Fine," he said, still amused. "I can take a hint. Call me if you're busy again next weekend."

Mark said nothing, just watched his friend leave, and exhaled sharply when he heard the front door slam shut upstairs.

"I'll serve the gelato," she suggested. "Why not go check the lock and set the security system?"

He seemed to snap out of his thoughts at her suggestion. "Yes. Right. Did I say I wanted vanilla?"

She laughed lightly. "You did."

"Be right back down."

As she scooped into the gelato—vanilla for him, chocolate for her—she thought happily about what it might be like to taste the vanilla on his lips. She smirked. Oh, he had opened the genie's bottle, all right, and that genie was sailing around in her head, planting all kinds of wicked ideas…

"Very sorry about that," he said as he came back down. "I had arranged to watch the football—" He stopped short upon seeing her offering the bowl of gelato with an undoubtedly playful smile in place.

"It's quite all right. You kept your promise. You got rid of him quickly." She held the bowl out to him. "Your reward," she said. "Or at least the start of it." 

He took it, purposely brushing his fingers against hers as he did, meeting her gaze once more, not needing to say any words out loud about what further reward might await him. "Thank you." She handed him a spoon.

"The sofa?"

"Perfect."

He switched on the telly, and they ate the gelato under the pretence of watching the rather pathetic Saturday night offerings. Once the bowls were empty, he took hers from her, set them down on the table, then turned to her.

She offered only a smile in return. "You're forgetting something."

He brought his brows together. "I am?"

She nodded. "I have a gift for you to thank you for your hospitality."

He chuckled. "Oh. I _had_ forgotten."

She stood, then went over to where she'd stowed the gift bag, then brought it over to where he was. He dug inside, then pulled the gift up. It was a plush terrycloth dressing gown, so dark blue it was nearly black, and long enough to cover all of his tall frame. "This is gorgeous," he said. "Thank you."

"I know you said you were comfortable in your suits," she said, "but I thought it might be nice for you to have something in which you could be truly cosy on those long, cold, lazy mornings, or after work, before bed…"

"I'll be sure to." He smiled, folded up the dressing gown, and set it aside, meeting her gaze again. "This was one of the best nights I've ever had." He reached out to lightly brush his fingertips across her cheek. Her eyes fluttered under this touch. "Thank you."

"Likewise," she said, placing her hand atop his, then turned her head in order to place a kiss in the centre of his palm. As she raised her eyes to meet his, her tongue peeked out and lightly swept against his skin.

He made that low, throaty sound once again, then moved his hand around the nape of her neck in order to pull her close. This time he did not wait for an invitation before pressing his tongue forward into her mouth. He did so rapidly and with such little warning that she gasped… then reciprocated avidly.

Before long, her leg was draped across his thighs, one arm around her waist, and his other hand stroking her arm before moving to her breast. Even through the fabric of her shirt, the touch made her gasp again, then moan as he pressed his palm into her. She ran her own hand down his chest, felt the hard point of his nipple through his shirt, before reaching for his hip. He grunted, then pulled her to straddle his lap.

She looked into his eyes. "Maybe this is not the best venue," she said.

"A prelude," he said quietly, then reached over and with the flick of a finger, switched off the television with the remote, which he tossed aside. The room went mostly dark save for the candles that still burned on the nearby table. 

"There are at least a few storeys to climb…"

"Shh," he said, then kissed her again, pulling her flush against him. His hand grazed up her thigh, over the cotton tights, before coming up to the hem of her light woollen dress, then traversing it and touching the bare skin above the top of the thigh-high tights. He cupped her bottom over her pants, then caressed it, never stopping his kiss for a moment; the longer he kissed her and touched her, even through her clothes, the more she felt his arousal building. _If he thinks he's going to make it up to a bed—_

Her thoughts were interrupted quite abruptly when his fingers moved around to between her legs, in time with parting his own to make room for his hand. "Oh God," she managed. His arm secured her around the small of her back, and he worked his fingers under the top edge of her pants, stroking languidly at the dampness there, then with greater force. She broke from the kiss to pant and moan hotly against his neck, realising it was _she_ who was never going to make it to a bed. She placed her lips against his throat, sucking, biting gently as his ministrations became more eager, more frantic, until he drove his fingers up into her, teasing her still with a thumb, until—

She cried out, crushing herself to him, her arms around his neck, as she felt her climax overtake her, once, then again and again; he did not stop until she begged him to. She became dizzy, and gasped for air as she leaned against him, still quite hard and firm against her belly.

She felt him peck a kiss against her cheek, then wrap both arms around her.

"Didn't even take your boots off," he murmured into her ear. "That is sexy."

She was not yet coherent, but she raised her head to meet his gaze with unfocused eyes, then leaned in to kiss him tenderly with slightly sore lips. "You," she said; she hoped he knew what she meant, and he seemed to.

"I'm not in a hurry," he said.

She raised a brow. The hardness between them seemed to say otherwise.

"Don't have to be all stoic and prim," she said. "Not after… that."

He chuckled. "I hardly think I can claim to be either. But not here."

She suddenly wanted to show him what's sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. She reached between them, pressed the palm of her hand hard into him, before tugging down on his zip, flicking open the button, and reaching into his boxers with a speed that surprised the both of them.

"Bridget," he said sharply, though the accompanying groans told her what she was doing was not unwelcome. She pushed herself back on his lap to afford better access, then drew her fingers along the length of him, quite firm and at attention, with every indication at the head that his trigger would be a very light one. She then grasped him, pushed, then pulled, flicking her thumb as it reached the top.

It was his turn to call for a deity. He looked divine slouched back against the couch cushions, and she took great pleasure in repeating the process again, watching his Adam's apple move with every breath he sucked down. His hands, looking for something to do, ended up on her thighs then on her arse again, pulling her towards him, working circles as she razed her fingers against the base in the jerk and tug of her movements.

She leaned forward so that the soft wool of her dress brushed against the tip of him, then reached to try to kiss him and grazed her teeth over his lower lip. He moaned and she felt his buttocks tense beneath them. "Oh God, Bridget," he gasped. "I can't… I can't…"

"It's okay," she whispered, then encouraged him to let go fully by continuing to stroke him. With a few more tugs and squeezes, he groaned loudly into her ear as he came. She still did not cease; he continued to whimper and moan until at last, he placed a hand over hers to indicate that she could stop. 

He then reached up to reverently kiss her. "Your dress," he said with typical concern.

"Don't care," she said, kissing him back. "Was worth it."

He chuckled, then drew her against him, holding her close, smoothing his hands down over her back. They spent a long time in this repose before he inhaled and exhaled slowly in an utterly satisfied way. "Yes. It was."

"Maybe…" she began, pushing away gently. "Maybe we can… you know." She glanced upwards then smirked. 

"Are you sure?"

She burst out with a laugh. "Yes, quite, if _that_ wasn't indication enough," she said. 

"I mean," he said, "you are married."

"Bit late to bring that up, don't you think? Buzz kill," she said then winked, leaning down to plant another kiss on his mouth. "He said it was okay. I mean, he's probably shagging Lady Sarah as we… speak." The hesitation in her voice was due to his running his fingertips over the bare skin of her backside; she was at that moment convinced she would have shagged him then even without explicit permission.

"Well, then. On your feet." He patted her backside playfully and she stood up. "I could probably carry you under normal circumstances, but as you said, two storeys, and after that I think my legs are still a bit weak."

She chuckled. "As are mine."

He didn't carry her, but he did hold her around the waist, gathering up his new robe, blowing out the candles as they passed the table, as they made the trek to his room. The broad bed, the burgundy drapes, all of which she had seen before but took no notice of now as he peeled the dress from her and tossed it aside. After a quick doffing of remaining clothing—he seemed especially enthralled to slip the boots then the thigh-high tights from her—he then pulled her to her feet, tore back the duvet, took her in his arms and kissed her again, his hands drifting quickly to cover her bottom, caressing then squeezing, the heat between her legs rising again… _October was a long time ago_ , she thought… 

"You've got…" she began, feeling his own passion building against her hip.

He laughed softly, catching her meaning. "I'd better have, hadn't I?"

After a quick verification that his nightstand was indeed adequately stocked, she sat on the edge of the mattress, then pushed back into the centre of the bed. He sat beside her, utilising one of said stock with clearly unsteady fingers, before turning to face her, looking at her so intensely she started to blush.

"Don't know if anyone's said so lately," he said, "but you have an absolutely beautiful body."

"Oh, God," she groaned in embarrassment, reaching for the sheet to cover herself, but he would have none of it. 

"It's true. I mean… look at that leg." He reached out and touched it, stroking downward. "That bottom. Those… breasts." He cleared his throat, turning suddenly serious. "I have thought about this moment, Bridget, for far too long."

"Then I think it's high time to seize the moment, Mark." She reached for his hand, placed it on the breast he had just praised, then leaned to kiss him.

With that he stretched out beside her, diving upon her with utter enthusiasm and passion, stroking her thigh, her hip, her waist, then to cup her breast; he bent to kiss it, take the hardened point gently and slowly between his teeth, circling it with his tongue until she moaned, before bestowing the same treatment upon the other. His mouth moved to her abdomen, to kiss her navel, to flatten his tongue into the divot there, before reaching to touch her inner thigh as he had down on the sofa.

"Oh, yes," she said, arching her head back as his fingers began to touch her again, to stroke the wetness and tease the knot of nerves, to fire her up all over again. As he did, he kissed a trail up between her breasts, to collarbone, to throat and then to lips again before shifting his weight atop of her.

"Especially have thought of this moment, darling Bridget," he growled; he stroked her with his fingers a few more times with urgency, then took them away in order to thrust his hips forward and drive into her.

The sound she made was somewhere between a cry and a moan; she lifted her arms to encircle him, braced her feet against the bed and met his every movement with a counter-movement. _Oh yes_ , she thought; she had given much thought to this herself as recently as the night before, but her own imaginings had nothing on reality. He moved swiftly and precisely for the passion he demonstrated, a perfect downward motion to match her every upward one.

She heard him groaning in an almost chant that indicated to her he was reaching his peak; one at a time, she wrapped her legs around his waist to tilt her hips up. It meant more work for him, but he hardly seemed to care as he started to grunt and pant for air even harder than before.

She was hardly unaffected herself; the change in angle meant he was hitting the sweetest possible spot with each thrust forward, and she began to groan, too, in time with his own mutterings. In the matter of a few more thrusts forward she felt that release snap like a band and she cried out as she came; with a few thrusts more, as she raked her nails along her shoulders, she felt the muscles of his back go taut. He then groaned in that utterly sensual, guttural way he had demonstrated earlier as he reached climax.

He slowed his motion then stopped, sinking to the bed beside her, taking her in his arms and holding her close. She plied his chest with open-mouthed kisses, tasting the salty sweat there as he kissed her forehead, breathing hotly on her skin. "Wow," he whispered in a raspy breath. 

She giggled a little, tilting her head back to look up at him. "Yeah," she said. "'Wow' is right."

He chuckled too, low under his breath, then sighed protractedly in that same satisfied way he had before. He then looked to her. "Nothing I can think to say sounds anything but cliché," he said quietly, "but that was… _literally_ the best of my life."

She felt both shy and pleased to hear such words. "Can't say I disagree," she said.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her up towards him in order to ply her with tender kisses and gentle laps of the tongue to her lips, jaw, throat. She relished in the attention, allowing her head to loll back a little as she sighed.

_I never want this to end_ , she thought.

………

Mark knew that eventually he would have to pry himself from her, but for now, he had no intention of leaving her for anything less than a house fire, or, he thought bemusedly, a new condom. He loved the way she felt beneath him, the way she tasted on his lips when he kissed her, the surprising responses to his lovemaking; it was almost as if she had known he'd been moments from asking her to tilt up her hips so that he might drive in deeper. So blissful, and so worth waiting for.

He brushed dampened fronds of hair from her face, so peaceful and happy, as her eyes, sparklingly, achingly blue, opened to meet his. She smiled, brushing her own fingertips along his hairline.

"You know what I want?" she asked, her voice deep and sultry in the afterglow.

"Anything," he said, and meant it.

She giggled. "Some water. I'm parched."

He laughed a little, kissed her on the lips, then drew slowly back. "Absolutely," he said. After taking care to remove the condom, he went to his en suite, took the glass from the side of the sink, and filled it to the top with cold water. He took a long sip, then topped it up again and brought it out to her.

She had closed her eyes but opened them to him when he came in again. He sat down, as she pushed herself to sit upright and reached out with both hands to accept it. He watched in amazement as she took in the entire glass.

"I guess you weren't kidding," he said with a smile.

She shook her head, then handed him the empty glass back. "Much better." She reclined back onto the pillow, folding her arm under the pillow, the other draped across her abdomen, and she was looking up to him with wide blue eyes, moistened, ruddy lips parted ever so slightly—

"Pardon me," he said, rising again, sweeping up the glass as he did. At her querulous glance, he said, "Think we'll want more water, don't you?"

He watched as she tinted pink all over. "I think we will," she agreed.

When he returned, he set down the glass, slipped in beside her, placed his hand upon her face; he trailed his fingers down her throat, to her collarbone, down along the side of her breast to her hip before leaning down to kiss her.

In his earlier haste he had failed to properly appreciate the softness of her skin, failed to adequately catalogue the curves of her body, which places she liked touched and how; he was now determined to make up for it with long, lingering caresses and careful attention to detail. The gasps and soft, sensual noises he elicited from her only excited him further, and more often than not he followed the touch of his fingers with a generous application of his lips, a gentle grazing of his teeth. He especially liked the way she squirmed and moaned when he took her backside in hand and placed his mouth over her hip, swirling his tongue over the skin there…

She managed to say his name in a papery voice, and he looked over to see she was clutching the bed sheets, her back arched up, chin pushed forward, eyes closed and mouth opened in apparent ecstasy. A smile crept over his features, and he bent to treat her to the same, this time on her inner thigh.

This was well-received, and she twisted, opening her eyes to meet his own; he pushed her leg aside then dove down with eager lips and tongue. She moaned under him, writhing in pleasure. He held her hips fast, dipping into her with fervour, causing her to moan again and again, to tense up and shudder; when he drove a finger, then two, deep into her in concert with his tongue and mouth, she cried out as wave after wave of her climax came over her. She did not hold herself back, and he did not cease until it was evident she was completely spent.

She sighed, seemingly subsiding into the bed, as he crawled back to the head of the bed to brush back her hair from her face, then place a gentle kiss on her lips. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at him blearily.

"Sure am glad we're home alone," she said quietly, causing him to laugh under his breath. "The way sound travels…"

It was then he realised what she meant, and groaned. "Oh God, you _did_ hear me from up there, didn't you?"

She grinned, lifting her hand to touch his shoulder, then placed her palm on his cheek. "I did," she said. "Confidentially, it was quite a turn on."

"I must confess," he said. "I heard you too."

She blushed thoroughly, dropping her forearm over her eyes. "I tried to quieten myself."

"Not enough," he said, then dropped to kiss her again, pulling her arm away from her eyes and resting it to her side. "Quite a turn on. Even after a cold shower."

"Oh, poor you," she said. "You must be aching for relief."

"I'm content with this," he said, "but in all honesty I wouldn't turn it down."

She chuckled. "Lay back," she said throatily, "and let me take a tall cool drink of water."

As he reclined, she turned not towards the nightstand but got up onto her knees and faced him. He sensed immediately she perhaps was not being entirely literal, especially when she started planting kisses on his chest, tonguing his nipples, stroking his abdomen, tickling the skin along his thigh with the pads of her fingers, then razing her nails back up.

"Poor Mark," she said again, touching the most erect part of him at last, causing him to twitch and gasp. She folded her fingers around him, brushing her thumb just under the head, then began to stroke him as she had down on the sofa. He closed his eyes, reaching to touch her, any part of her, but she was too far away. 

When her mouth covered him, her tongue swirled out around the tip, he grunted and thrust slightly up into her; she responded by placing a hand flat on his stomach as if to still his movement. She went further down, sliding her hand up along the base in counterpoint up, then drew back and did so again and again. He knew he would not be able to withstand much more of this; when her fingers brushed along the underside, grazed along the lower regions, he groaned. She took him in further, sucked, grazed and stroked; he only managed the barest of warnings mere moments before he came, hard and like a shot, a long throaty sound burbling up from within him as he did.

He reasoned, as soon as he was capable of such thought again, that he must have dozed off, because when he regained his senses, the duvet and sheets covered the two of them, and she was curled up to him, one arm linked about his waist, one under the pillow beneath her head. Half the water in the glass on the nightstand was gone. He sighed, and looked down through his lashes to her just as she raised her eyes to him.

"Welcome back," she teased.

"That was…" he said, trailing off, unable to find the words to describe the utter nirvana he had found under her ministrations.

She stroked her hand up his chest in a languid manner. "I'm glad. Looked like— _sounded_ like—you enjoyed that. A lot." 

"Quite right," he said, exhaling again.

She chuckled lightly, kissed his cooling skin. "Been a while since a woman treated you to that?" she asked sweetly; it was tenderly meant, but he felt himself wash over in embarrassment.

"A very long while," he said at last.

"It was my pleasure," she said. "Well. And yours, that's clear." It was his turn to chuckle. "Oh. Care for some water?"

"Yes," he said. 

She pushed herself up, handed him the glass. He halted her. "I would like more. Fresh, cold, and with a view that is unmatched."

She grinned; he was sure she had watched him move towards the en suite earlier. "Absolutely."

He took in her every movement as she walked away, then, just before reaching the attached bathroom, she looked back in a fetching manner over her shoulder with an impish grin. He heard the sink tap run, then stop, and then she returned like a goddess with her offering, handing him the glass. He sat up to receive it.

"There you are."

He drank down most of it, then reached to set it down. "I don't know about you," he said, "but I think a quick shower would not go amiss."

She grinned, then nodded.

Together they went back into the en suite. He fired up the shower with tolerably hot water, then held her hand as she stepped into it. He was directly behind her. With care and tenderness he washed her, savouring moving the bar of soap over her skin, listening to her murmurs as he held her around the waist, her back to him, as he kissed her throat and washed her abdomen, soaping up her breasts then down between her legs.

"This isn't helping, I'm afraid," she gasped.

He hardly cared, continuing to work at her until she sagged back against him, muttered some more, then groaned, writhed and moaned until she came again. "You," she panted, "are a very naughty man."

"I think I shall take that as a compliment."

She turned around, brought her arms up and around his neck and kissed him as the hot water pounded down upon them. Her body sliding against him was doing nothing to quell his want again. She was, of course, one step ahead, and stole the soap from him. "Allow me to return the compliment."

With a thick lather worked up, she worked her hands over his chest, then moved to points lower, taking great pains to be as thorough as possible. He bit down on his lower lip as he leaned against the shower wall; she washed, rubbed and caressed until he came again, crying out loudly as he did.

"There we are," she cooed, pressing herself against him, running her hands against his hips, then reaching around to cup his arse. "Speaking of gorgeous bodies…"

"We're never going to sleep at his rate," he warned.

She grinned, then reached up to give him another kiss before she broke away to yawn. "Was going to say sleep's overrated," she said.

"I think you've made my point," he said. "Let's finish washing up and… well. Looking very much to sleeping with you."

They managed to finish washing and rinsing, from top of head to tip of toes, without succumbing to passion again. By the time he reached the bed, though utterly satiated, his limbs felt heavy and stiff and he realised just how exhausted he was. Her sleepy features echoed how he felt. She climbed in, lying on her right side, and he slipped in behind her, spooning up against her, his arm over her, his hand cradling just under her breast. Within moments he dropped off into blissful sleep.

In the light of the new day, however, he realised that he had made a tactical error: the next day she would be leaving for the lawyers, then for Oakenshaw to wrap up that chapter of her life. How in the world would he get on without her here?

He resigned to pushing aside these troubling thoughts, and was contented to watch her sleep. Her hair, clean and shiny, rippled over the pillow like rivers of gold, and gingerly he brushed his fingers along her hairline. She stirred. He leant down and kissed her cheek just beside her ear, then murmured, "Morning, darling."

She made a soft sound then sighed happily. Unexpectedly, though, she tensed and turned over. "Oh God." For a moment he was horrified to think she had regretted their intimacy, but as she brought her hands to her wild hair, he realised it was something far less significant. "Don't look at my mad hair."

He began to laugh heartily, then moved to hover over her where she lay, and gave her a little kiss. "I adore your mad hair," he said softly.

"You're mad, then."

"So be it."

He kissed her again, and once more, and was sure that the passion of the previous night would be fully rekindled within moments… except she froze again.

"What is it?"

"Someone's on the landing. I just heard footsteps on the stairs…"

There was a sharp rap on the bedroom door. "Mr Darcy? Are you still abed?"

He felt his skin flush crimson. "I am, Cassie." Bridget covered her face.

"So sorry to disturb you," she said. "I felt just terrible about leaving you in the lurch and came to make up for missing last week. Sorry for the lack of warning. I can tend to laundry for you."

He cleared his throat, looked to Bridget. "I…. One moment." He slipped out of bed, put on his new dressing gown, then padded over to the door, which he cracked open after ensuring Bridget had adequately covered herself with the duvet. Cassie looked startled to see him with what was undoubtedly mad hair of his own. "If you wouldn't mind starting down in the kitchen area, I… have a guest."

"Oh," she said, looking befuddled. "You mean upstairs?"

"Well, yes," he said quietly. "And no. Her things are in the guest room, but she—" He needed to say nothing more.

"Oh!" Cassie went bright red. " _Right_. Well. Take the time you need and I'll tend to the lower ground floor first."

"I'm afraid we left a bit of a mess after dinner," he said, referring to the dinner plates and dessert bowls being left in situ. He dared not think of what the sofa looked like, with pillows askew, blankets cast aside…

"You can count on me," she said with a grin.

"Your foot's okay?"

She nodded. "Right as rain. Shall I…" Slyly she tried to look over his shoulder in a curious way. "…put on some coffee for the two of you?"

"Most appreciative if you did. Thanks."

He turned back into the room, closed the door. Bridget dared to peek over the edge. She looked as red as Cassie had. "All clear?"

He nodded. "I think this puts the kibosh on anything further this morning, darling. She'll want to do all of the bedding."

"Oh God," she said. "She'll _know_."

"She already knows," he said with a wink. He slipped out of the dressing gown and threw it onto the duvet. "Take that, and go up and get your bags. You can wash up in here if you want, and Cassie can thoroughly clean up the guest room as we have breakfast." He glanced to the clock; it was half-nine. "I, in the meantime, will tame this maelstrom of hair, have a shave and get dressed, and also attempt to tidy up after our, er, wild night."

Bridget grinned. "I can spend tonight in here with you, too," she said, then a shadow passed over her features. "Oh. My last night in London."

"Not the last," he said. "Just until the next time."

She offered a smile, then pushed back the duvet and got to her feet. "One last kiss before I go," she said, almost as if daring him to contain himself to only that. He did admirably, kissing her deeply whilst sliding his hands around her waist and up the soft skin of her back, before slipping said hands down to her arse for a little squeeze before releasing her.

"Damn that housekeeper," she murmured, stepping back unsteadily to slip into the dressing gown.

Within a moment she was gone out of the room, which suddenly had never seemed more empty. With a sigh, he bent down for her discarded clothing—woollen dress, tights, pants and bra—and bundled it into the hamper. He placed her boots by the door to bring them to her, then went into the en suite to tend to his grooming.

He was just buttoning his shirt when she returned, fully dressed, coiffed with her hair pinned up, and light makeup on her lids and cheeks. She bore her suitcase in one hand and the smaller bag in the other. "I thought it best if I tend to myself up there. Fewer… distractions."

He laughed a little. "Very wise." His smile faded as he looked her up and down. "God. You're simply beautiful."

His piercing honesty made her blush. "I feel a wreck."

"You're anything but," he said. "When I think of the change from then to now…"

"Then?"

"At your dinner party. Initially you looked desperately sad."

She pulled her lips tight in a sort of strange smile. "I was, Mark."

"I'm sorry," he said, then reached forward to take her hands.

"Don't be sorry," she said, pressing her lips to his knuckles much as he had done. "You helped show me I didn't need to be that way, and for that, and for last night's liberation… I will be forever grateful."

"Liberation?"

"It had… been a while, shall we say."

He chuckled, tugging her towards him and giving her a big, tight hug. "For me too. And not anything half as satisfying, at that."

She giggled and drew back, then pulled him towards the door. "Come on. Could use a good mug of coffee and some of those chocolate croissants."

"I don't have any more of those."

"Oh, yes, you do," she said with a wink. "I made sure of it."

He swept the boots up to put in the foyer, where they rightly belonged.


	6. Chapter 6

As they made her way down to the lower ground floor, with each step, Bridget found her thighs and legs were incredibly sore, but the ache was a pleasant one, a wonderful memento of the passionate frenzy of the prior evening. She tried very hard not to allow the smirk to remain, at least not so obviously, but she could hardly help feeling as happy as she did. She took a seat at the nook as he offered to warm breakfast, for which she thanked him. Cassie's coffee was exquisite; the woman herself had already disappeared into the guest room and was, in all likelihood, already washing the bedding. Before long he brought her the croissant.

"This is, I think, one of the more perfect mornings of my life," she said as she took a big bite.

"Mm, agreed," he said as he perused the newspaper, though she could tell his heart wasn't in it, particularly when he added, "How I'm going to keep my hands off of you with other people around is a mystery to me." He folded the paper then set it down, and bit from his own croissant, allowing a sound of pleasure as he did. "It's probably for the best I don't keep these regularly."

"You had better if I'm coming 'round," she said with a smile. From a distance, she heard the tell-tale sound of her mobile going off. It got closer, and Bridget turned to find a woman who must have been Cassie bearing Bridget's handbag. 

"I trust this is yours?" she said with a smile. "It's been going off non-stop since I arrived."

"Oh, dear, thank you," said Bridget. 

"Cassie, Bridget. Bridget, Cassie." This from Mark; both women looked to him at the same time, then to each other.

"A pleasure to meet you," said Bridget, with a wink, then added, "Mark's been lost without you."

"Yes, obviously," Cassie replied. "Pleasure to meet you, too. And now, a mountain of bedding awaits, if you'll kindly pardon me."

Between bites, she opened her phone to find several voice messages and texts. They were all from her friends. "Oh," she said. "They want to have dinner tonight to say goodbye." She looked up. "Do you mind?"

"Why should I mind?" he asked. "Why shouldn't you have time with your friends? I'm a grown man, Bridget, and can spend one night alone…" His voice slipped into a whisper. "…before you return and I ravish you."

"Ohhh," she said, then laughed. "While that sounds positively _delightful_ , I was rather hoping you'd join me."

"Oh."

"But you know," she teased, "if you'd rather sit on your own…"

He reached over and grasped her hand. "See previous comment about keeping my hands off of you with others around."

"You should probably try to behave," she said. "I would prefer to keep things… quiet for now."

He nodded. "Too much to explain, this situation."

"Exactly." 

He smiled. "Well. Despite the difficult evening ahead of me… I'd love to meet your friends."

While Cassie continued her task to tidy the house, they decided to take a walk. It may have been February, but the sun shone in the sky and it was dry, the air crisp and clean, so he suggested taking a tour of nearby Holland Park. 

"I would take your arm as would be proper and right as my escort," she said, "but I don't want your neighbours to get the wrong idea."

"No," he said. "You mean you don't want them to get the _right_ idea."

She laughed, conceding the point.

Their travels took them around and through the park; as they walked, they talked at length about what the future might hold for her. "I will talk to my friends, I think," she said, taking his arm after all of that, but they were well away from his neighbourhood now. "And not just the posh ones. They may know of all sort of opportunities."

"Cast a wide net," he said. "You're likely to hit upon something."

"I'm suddenly more excited for the future than I ever have been, Mark," she said, tightening the hold on his arm briefly. "I realise that's a very odd thing for a woman in her thirties to say, but it's true."

"It's not odd at all," he said, placing his hand atop hers.

They ended up in front of a pub just at lunchtime, and she suggested that they give it a whirl. It was a nice enough looking place, but he was dubious at the possible quality of the food given what she was used to eating.

"Come on," she said with a smirk. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

He was grateful that she was right; the food was quite delicious and the atmosphere was pleasant and homey. "I love this place," she declared, sipping at her wine. "It's gorgeous. And did you see? There's a flat to let upstairs. Maybe it's meant to be."

He blinked. "Live… here?" 

She chuckled; she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Mark, please don't be offended," she said. "I like your house well enough, but… I can't ever hope to be an independent woman going from living in one man's house to another man's."

He looked down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

She took his hand. "I know. I can still visit. And who even says this will work out? I may need your spare room when I return, after all."

He took in a deep breath. "How long do you think before you're back?"

"I'm not sure." She squeezed his hand. "I hope no more than a couple of months." She could see her words hit him palpably. "I could try to come visit."

He shook his head. "I don't know. When you're back, I want it to be for good," he said quietly. "I don't think I can take you coming and going again indefinitely."

 _He says that now_ , she thought. "Tell you what. I'll do whatever I can to be back in London for good, sooner than later."

"Sorry," he said. "I don't mean to brood like this and ruin the day." He glanced up, and she was taken by the warmth, the depth, the longing in his eyes. "I know you'll do what you can. I can be patient."

She lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "What do you say, when we're done eating, we ask about the flat? Maybe have a look? If I can secure it, and it's nice—"

He snorted.

"— _and it's nice_ ," she repeated, "I can leave you the keys to do nice things to it so that it's gorgeous when I return."

"Like what?"

"Like… flowers. I don't know. Nothing fancy. Just welcoming touches."

He didn't reply right away. "If you really like it and want to take it… I'll do what I can to kit it out for you nicely."

They were able to have a look at the flat, and immediately she knew it was just what she wanted. Though it was in need of a good cleaning—it had apparently been sitting empty for a while—it was cosy, warm, and offered a decent view of…

"A train line," he mused as he drew aside the curtain.

"Not _just_ that," she said, coming up to stand beside him at the window. "Look at London beyond. All of those people with their stories, all of those lives. More people than what live in all of the county around Oakenshaw. It's invigorating."

"It is a nice space," he said. "I admit that I can picture you living here. Though I imagine the trains going by in the wee hours won't be to your liking."

She didn't say anything, only grinned, and thought what serendipity a short walk could bring.

………

Dinner with Bridget's friends was not quite what Mark expected at all. They met at a Mexican restaurant—not the expected venue whatsoever—to find a group of six besides themselves present. One was in investment banking—the head, to be precise—but the others had jobs he would not have expected: journalist; former pop star; an architect; a mum who still spoke fondly of her days as a commodity broker; and her husband, who was a barrister. 

Drinks and starters had already been served, small talk established, when the ninth of the party turned up: tall, thin, glamourous, sweeping up to the table in a swirl of perfume, couture clothing, and shiny hair.

"Bridget! So pleased to see you," she said, bending to peck her on each cheek. "Tom, Sharon, Magda… oh! I don't believe we have met!" This was directed towards himself with a bright, almost predatory smile, as she held out her hand. "I'm Rebecca, one of Bridget's _best_ friends."

He heard a snort from another of the friends (Sharon, he thought) as Rebecca said this. "A pleasure," he said, taking it for a polite shake.

"Mark's a barrister too," said Jude, taking a bite from a breadstick, "and has known Bridget since she was a little girl."

"Oh really?" said Rebecca. "How _sweet_!" Rebecca wedged a chair in between Mark and his nearest neighbour, Jeremy. "So I bet you have all _kinds_ of stories to tell about Bridget," she said with a grin.

Mark glanced to Bridget; for her part, she looked like she was about to burst out laughing. 

"Oh, do tell us one," Rebecca encouraged, placing a hand on his forearm. "Share a little dirt on our friend, the countess."

"I…" he said, looking to Bridget again; he was unable to get the most recent 'dirt' out of his thoughts, and he was sure she didn't want him sharing that. Then he was struck by inspiration. "My birthday party," he said. "The pool. And you running around naked on my lawn."

"Ahh… yes," Bridget said, grinning shyly.

He then proceeded to regale them of the story, practically legend amongst their families, of when they had shared a swim at a birthday party in Buckingham. Initially he omitted the fact that he was eight, she was younger, and that it was a paddling pool, but their shocked looks were well worth it. 

Bridget laughed aloud. "You lot have a bunch of dirty minds. I was _four_!"

This sent all of them into gales of laughter.

The servers came with great plates of steaming, spicy food for all to share; Mark helped himself after serving a portion of enchilada and rice to Bridget, as the others also served themselves from the vast array before them.

"So, Bridge," asked Magda casually, which seemed to betray her intense curiosity on the subject, "where's Arthur? Thought I saw in the papers he was at your charity do."

"Yeah," said Jeremy. "Half expected he'd tag along today."

Aside from the slight clinking of cutlery on stoneware, not a sound was made as they all awaited the answer.

"Oh," said Bridget at last, cutting into the cornmeal and beef. "He was busy," she said at last.

It was Mark's turn to restrain a laugh, and covered it up by taking a long sip of sangria.

"Still, he might've come to say hello," said Shaz. "What's he so busy doing?"

"Taking care of loose ends before we leave tomorrow for Oakenshaw," she said. She looked up, setting down her fork, and met the gaze of each of her friends. "We've decided to part ways."

"You've… you've _what_?" said Rebecca, in near-hysteria, placing her hand to her throat as if mortally offended. Otherwise the silence was astounding. "For God's sake. Why would you want to give up all of that?! Oakenshaw, a title…"

"For fuck's sake, Rebecca," said Sharon under her breath. "A title isn't everything." Sharon's gaze aimed towards Mark, and she grinned slyly. Mark suspected his presence, the fact he had served her food, that he had been so solicitous, gave their relationship away. Subtly, Sharon drew her fingers across her lips, as if to say they were sealed. "Whatever makes you happy," she added.

"Oh! Does that mean you're going to move to London?" asked Tom with glee.

"Yes, I… took a flat today."

"Hurrah!" said Jude and Sharon in unison, and, along with Tom, raised their glasses to clink a toast.

Rebecca grasped at Mark's sleeve again. "This is too, too terrible," she said with a tone of deep mourning. "Giving up her place in society… I could never! Has she lost her mind?" She grasped more tightly. "You're Arthur's friend, too, aren't you? She said she'd been staying with a friend of Arthur's in Holland Park. With _you_. Can't you talk her out of it?"

"It's what she wants, and she's much happier—in case you hadn't noticed." 

"Still, this seems so hasty," she said. "Maybe we can, you know, have dinner and talk about this, see what we can do to bring about a reconciliation."

"Why should I want to do that?" he asked quietly. He glanced to her as he brought his fork up, challenging her with his eyes.

She released his sleeve, but her hand remained settled on his arm. "Oh, I see," she said coolly, then smiled. "You're absolutely right, Mark. She's just a silly girl who doesn't know what she has, and won't until she's lost it all…." She swept her fingers over the fabric of his suit jacket. "You and I could find much more interesting things to talk about over dinner than Bridget's self-imposed difficulties."

"I'm afraid you misunderstand," he said, pulling his arm fully from her grasp. "I have no interest in her reconciling with her husband because she and I are together now."

Rebecca made a sound, something very close to a combination of a gasp and a croak. All conversation around the table stopped. "Oh my God. When Arthur finds out, Bridget, you're ruined!"

"Rebecca, Arthur already knows," said Bridget calmly, not looking up from scooping up some rice.

"Ohhh," she said. Mark could veritably see the wheels spinning in her head, the possible opportunities arising. "Perhaps poor Arthur could use a friendly shoulder—"

"Give it up," said Bridget with a laugh. "Everything's mutual. He's already moved on, too."

Sharon laughed. "Good God, Rebecca. Do you _ever_ stop machinating?"

Rebecca pursed her lips, raised her chin to the air in a haughty manner. "It never hurts to keep oneself in the loop," she said in a wounded fashion. Given the lack of concern from the rest of the group, this behaviour was clearly not out of the ordinary for her.

As dinner was cleared away, they all briefly discussed dessert. With a single glance shared between them, Mark and Bridget decided to forgo it.

"Totally understandable," said Tom with a wink; while the bluntness had been necessary, Mark was beginning to regret the table knowing all of their private business. "It was a very great pleasure to meet you, and looking forward to seeing you around."

"Very nice to meet you as well." They stood, all of them, to give hugs goodbye and gentle pecks on cheeks.

"If you could be so kind to keep this under your respective hats," said Bridget. "I mean, until things are underway…" They nodded, and Mark trusted they would all abide, except perhaps Rebecca. Given her reputation as a rumour-monger, though, he doubted her words would have legs.

………

The drive back to Mark's house was bittersweet; finally they would get to be alone, but it was the last time in a long while they would. "I'm glad you had a good night," she said, breaking the silence as they parked outside the house.

"I did," he said. "I hope I didn't spoil anything by speaking up."

She waved her hand. "The only think you spoilt was Rebecca's plans for you. Or for Arthur. Don't give it another thought."

"Okay," he said. "Let's go in."

At this suggestion, she didn't put up a fuss. She would be all too pleased to wrap herself up in his arms, for consolation, warmth, and comfort.

Once in the foyer, he helped her from her overcoat, then, as expected, took her into his embrace. "Bridget," he murmured close to her ear. "The house will seem so lonely without you."

"I'll be back," she said.

"I know," he said. "You know what I mean."

She did, and squeezed him tighter to her. Hoping to lighten the mood, she said, "Too bad we haven't anymore Viennetta." 

He kissed her on the temple. "Suppose we shall have to improvise."

They shed their outerwear, then went directly up to the first floor, to Mark's room, which they found in pristine condition thanks to Cassie's attentions. He took her by the hand, brought it up to his lips, and kissed her palm. She sighed, then leaned into him and kissed him deeply on the mouth. _Far, far better than Viennetta_ , she thought, savouring every caress to her lips and tongue, to every stroke over her back and bottom, the insistent press of his hands against her arse that spoke of his desire as much as the hardness against her belly did.

He drew back, reached to unbutton her shirt, then slipped it from her shoulders. "Come, darling," he said in a deep growl, tracing a finger along the top edge of her brassiere to the closure at the front. "You're wearing far too much for my liking." 

She chuckled then struck a bit of a sexy pose as she reached to undo the closure. She'd meant it to be a little silly, but the way his eyes darkened with lust told her he considered it anything but. She then went for the zip on her hip in order to shimmy out of the pencil skirt, but hesitated to tug it down. "And you?" she asked.

He took the hint, undoing the tie, then the shirt buttons and the cuff links. He stripped the shirt off, revealing a vest beneath. "Your turn," he commanded.

She grinned, sliding the zipper down, then letting the skirt fall to the floor. "You have the advantage, sir, of far more layers than I have."

"You have the advantage, darling," he said, staring at her in her pants and thigh-high stockings. "Ever and always." With great haste he slipped his vest then trousers off, then his boxers and socks, then pulled back the duvet and sheets.

"Hold on," she said. "I still have—"

"I think not." He came forward, pulling her pants down over her hips, then practically pouncing upon her, lifting her up then dropping her onto the bed. He was quickly beside her, nuzzling into her neck. "You're driving me wild."

She could only sigh under the ministrations and agree. Hurried yet never inattentive, he was beside and above her, his hands grazing along her body, kissing her throat and breasts as his fingertips went for her tenderness. She whimpered and shifted, and as she did he drove those slender digits down farther into her; she rocked into the caresses and with each stroke signalled she was closer and closer to climax.

He stopped. She opened her eyes, saw he was slipping on protection. She smiled as she panted for air, waiting for him patiently to return; it took him a few seconds, but it felt to her like hours without his touch. When he returned she was ever more eager to have him, and she grabbed his arse as he positioned himself over her, tilting her hips up, awaiting the connection she craved.

As he drove forward he groaned deep in his throat, rocking forward hard into her, then slowly retreating and thrusting forward again. She could not stop the cries that loosed from her throat, and she dragged her nails over this sweat-dampened skin of his back. She crossed her ankles around his waist and let him continue his lustfully languid movements; she did her best to arch up into him, but felt herself losing control as she spun deeper into ecstasy. 

While he was in mid-thrust forward, she came to her surprise in a rather forceful and loud way, crying out again and again as he continued thrusting; he was picking up speed, breathing more laboriously, biting gently on her shoulder until he tensed and shuddered; the lines of his body went taut as he found his release with a long, sensual groan close to her ear.

"Darling," he said in a throaty whisper as he turned over to his side, careful to draw her with him, to not break their connection, to continue to kiss her with loving reverence. She sighed again, returning the kisses as best she could before they settled back in the pillow to gaze into one another's eyes.

"Think I might have left a mark," he whispered, running a finger along her shoulder tenderly.

"Oh, you have indeed," she said playfully, drawing her own fingers over the features of his face: the line of his brows over his kind brown eyes, the slight dimple to his cheek as he half-smiled in his satisfaction, the curve of his gentle lips. 

"I hope," he said in a low tone, "that you can work miracles in Oakenshaw."

"I'll do my best. But for now…"

She smiled, leaned forward, and initiated passion all over again; not exactly a miracle in and of itself, but it would do for now.

……….

It was a little later, in the fuzz of oxygen-return between romps, that Mark was able to reflect on the meeting with the friends, and he asked her why they'd thought he was a close friend of Arthur's. She chuckled low in her throat, a gorgeous, sexy sound he tried earnestly to commit to memory.

"You'd made your offer, and thought it would be easier to decline their hospitality and explain I'd already found a place if I said it was a friend of Arthur's," she said. "Besides, they've all got tiny flats, except maybe Magda and Jeremy, but _they've_ got small children, and… I couldn't bear the thought of staying with _Rebecca_."

He laughed, then teased, "Ah. My spacious house was a matter of _convenience_ , and nothing more."

She trailed her hand up along the midline of his abdomen. "Define 'convenience'," she said, stopping at his navel. "Being here made _this_ a lot more convenient, didn't it?"

" _Very_ grateful for the opportunity," he murmured, but she laughed and pushed playfully away.

"You opportunist," she joked, turning over and away, pretending to be offended.

"Damned right," he said, reaching for her to brush his fingers along her waist in a tickle. She squealed, but he held her hips tight, pulling her towards him.

The feel of her backside against his thighs jolted him into sudden ardour, and he placed his open mouth against the recently offended shoulder, kissing her there, bringing a hand around to the front to tease between her thighs. She gasped.

"You… are…" she began, but broke off with another extended sigh.

"I know," he groaned, working his hand around, stroking harder, pressing himself more firmly against her bottom. "Unable to keep my hands to myself."

"Thank— _ohhh_ —God for that."

After a quick application of protection he was back beside her, his hands reverently upon her arse, drawing her hips to him, arching into her from behind. He grasped the hard points of her breasts, pressed them up into her, causing her to moan as he rocked forward again and again. The contact was especially heady with this position; he pressed into her most sensitive spot with his own, and as he came suddenly and with great force, it was all he could do to not lose all control and collapse upon her. Rather, he kept going until he felt her tense around him; she then cried out as she climaxed.

They fell together to the bed, Mark draped slightly over her, and she turned her head to kiss him before pressing her cheek to her pillow, and sighing in her pleasure. "Oh, God," she said at long last. "What I've been missing out on. Thought I might shoot off into space, there." He began to chuckle as she went on, "Good thing the bed's as big as all this, or we might have ended up on our arses on the floor."

This then made him laugh uncontrollably; she turned to embrace him, kissing him, holding him close to her. Indeed, what he had been missing out on was this joy, this pleasure. This _love_.

He realised with a start that he did love her… and being separated from her was going to be even more difficult than he had originally thought. 

………

She wanted to move, but couldn't. Her limbs felt as heavy as lead; she was thoroughly exhausted, and her—lover? boyfriend? both seemed inadequate terms—had inconveniently partially pinned her down against the mattress; he was breathing in a low and steady manner that suggested he had fallen fast to sleep. _No matter_ , she thought with a smile. She was satisfied beyond her wildest dreams. Whatever it took to get back to London, back to her new flat, her new life, to _him_ … she would do it happily.

"You sound like a mooning old cow," she murmured quietly, easing out from under him in order to reach for the glass of water, which, she realised, was quite empty. She sighed, then drew herself to unsteady feet to wobble into the en suite.

 _You are mooning_ , she thought as she ran the water, then brought it back to the bed with her. She sat down on the mattress, took a long sip, set the glass down, then turned to look at him, highlighted in the dim, stray moonlight creeping in from outside. Her heart raced a bit; he was a beautiful specimen of a man, and with the stamina of a racehorse to boot. 

"Mm. Moony," she said softly. "Can't deny it."

"Quiet, you, and come back to bed," he murmured without opening his eyes, holding his arm up to invite her into his spooning embrace. She smiled, then crawled in, tucking comfortably in beside him, and very quickly falling to sleep, too.

The morning came all too quickly—never mind they had in all likelihood gone to sleep in the very small hours—but he was already gone when she opened her eyes. She blinked blearily, glanced to the clock, and groaned to see that it was half seven.

Arthur would be by for her at noon.

He returned presently with a pair of coffee mugs. "Morning, darling," he said, setting one mug down next to where she rested. 

"It's so early," she whined, pushing herself upright to take the mug.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. But I wanted… well, selfishly, I suppose… a little more time with you."

She smiled. "It's not selfish."

They sipped at their coffee, then with very little said went to the shower to wash up, then even less said as he sat back upon the bed and reclined against the pillows. She took the initiative, climbed onto his lap, and commenced a round of lovemaking that would be something to remember, poignant and perfect, eliciting tears from her eyes as she arched up, his hands on her waist as he drove up into her, as they came nearly simultaneously.

"Darling," he said as she leaned forward onto him. "I will miss you so."

She nodded as his arms came up around her to hold her. "I'll miss you too."

They said nothing more in anything approaching a maudlin vein; after a slight rest she parted herself from him, stretched, then returned to the en suite with her sponge bag. He followed her in, but he too was all business, shaving and trimming around his sideburns as she applied her makeup and pulled her hair back into a decorative barrette. It was not until they were fully dressed and ready to head downstairs that he took her in his arms and gave her one last hug, smoothed her hair down, and gave her a peck on the top of her head.

"Let's get you fed," he murmured.

She nodded. Time for the work to begin.


	7. Epilogue

Mark was paying the price, and then some, for admonishing her to not return to London until she didn't have to leave again. It was now nearly the end of March, and while he had spoken to her often by phone, gotten the occasional text message and email, but nothing could replace her being there with him.

He had kept his word, though, and had gone to bring little decorative touches to her new flat: framed art, small brass figurines, and other things he thought she might like. He had hired Cassie to give it a thorough cleaning. She had done so happily, revealing to her employer that his new girlfriend had her stamp of approval, unlike certain others.

Early one Friday, his mobile rang. He saw instantly that it was Bridget's number, and he answered it promptly. "Darling," he said.

"Mark, I'm so sorry to bother you," she said, her voice seeming distant and crackly. "I need a massive favour."

"Name it."

"I'm expecting a delivery at the flat, and… would you mind terribly being there to receive it?"

He thought about his day's schedule; nothing he couldn't postpone or delay. "I don't mind at bit."

She sighed. "Great, such a load off. They said they'd be there between noon and two."

"You can count on me."

She paused, then said softly, "I know I can."

They said their goodbyes, then rang off.

He arrived to the quiet, empty flat with time to spare. _Well… not quite quiet_ , it occurred to him; there was a hum emanating from the kitchen area, and upon closer approach, he could tell that the small, under-counter refrigerator was on and running.

He crouched down, pulled open the door, and to his surprise saw the fridge was well-stocked with all the fixings for her signature dish, chilling white wine, and Viennetta in the freezer. He stood, spotted two bottles of red on the counter, then turned at a slight sound behind him…

And stared into the vivid, shining blue eyes of the woman he adored.

"Surprise."

"You devil, you," he said, then strode to take her into his arms, placing his hands upon her face before kissing her with a passion to span the time since he'd last been able to. "You're here for good?" he asked, holding her tightly to him. "It's all settled?"

"I am, and it is."

Relief settled over him, and he released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. "And the delivery was just a ruse?"

"Actually, it wasn't," she said, pushing back from his embrace. She looked gorgeous, happy, and thrillingly alive, and he had never been so glad to see anyone in all his years. "I'm honestly expecting one. It's the bed. Thought you might like to give it a little test." She grinned, then waggled her brows.

This made him laugh. "I suppose I must do my duty," he said in a resigned tone. "Though I hope…" he began, thinking of the dearth of condoms on his person, "that you're prepared for said test."

"Of course I am," she said, looking at him through her lashes. "Nothing you need concern yourself about."

"Oh?"

"Mm, yes, something I haven't needed in many years," she said, waggling her brows again. "The miracle of modern chemistry."

He chuckled again. Oh, he was very much looking forward to this. _Very_ much.

"Until then…" she said. "Shall I order us lunch from downstairs? I'm afraid I only picked up enough for dinner later."

"I think that'll do very well," he said, embracing her again. "We can go to Tesco on the weekend."

This made her laugh. "If you can find your way back."

………

The bed was a little slice of heaven; not as wide or as broad as the king-sized thing in Mark Darcy's room, but the room in her flat never would have supported a landing strip like that one. It was, however, more than adequate, particularly as the nearly two-month break from mind-bending sex was two months too long.

She sighed and rested onto his chest, the newly laundered duvet and sheets in a tangle around them. "Very nice," she said.

"Agreed."

"Quite a lot of bounce."

"Quite," he agreed. "Most satisfactory."

"And not squeaky."

"Even better," he said, "though let's hope the sound doesn't travel easily downward."

She laughed, then turned to look into his eyes. "You know what I liked best?"

"I can't guess."

"No… well, nothing between us. At all. Very nice."

"Ah yes," he said; she got the distinct impression he was taking the piss. "A lovely sensation."

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bridget's Chanel dress](http://www.coutureusa.com/p-10193-chanel-black-ivory-wool-evening-dress.aspx) and [my GOD those SHOES](http://us.christianlouboutin.com/us_en/shop/women/au-hameau-stras-pvc-1.html). 
> 
> [A house similar](http://media.rightmove.co.uk/81k/80107/37768540/80107_NHL130023_FLP_00_0000_max_600x600.JPG) layout to Mark's, or so I imagine.
> 
> [Mark's manly office design](http://cdn.homedit.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/strong-office-design.jpg) (from [this page](http://www.homedit.com/10-luxury-office-design-ideas-for-a-remarkable-interior/)), ha ha, and the [tissue box holder](http://www.cathayliving.com/store/pc/catalog/108001_800px.jpg) (I want one!).
> 
> Perfect [spag bol](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/foodanddrinknews/7017565/Italian-chefs-tell-world-how-to-make-correct-bolognese.html).
> 
> The UK (?) version of "What's good for the goose is good for the gander": [What's sauce for the goose…](http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/What%27s+sauce+for+the+goose)


End file.
